


Deck the Halls

by HMSLusitania



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/M, I don't know man, I've had awful writer's block recently and this probably sucks too, Minor Character Death, Nobility, but it turned into an agatha christie deal, but oh well, but then it's a murder mystery, possibly ooc but it does take place in the 1900s so some allowances had to be made, there would be no point if it wasn't murder, this was supposed to be a downton abbey style au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-12
Updated: 2014-11-01
Packaged: 2018-02-12 21:41:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 30,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2125620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HMSLusitania/pseuds/HMSLusitania
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was the event of the season. Every year the Argents threw the best Christmas party in the country and everyone was invited. But when the guests start disappearing and turning up dead, it's up to the earl's daughters, Lydia and Allison, and the detective inspector's son, Stiles, to find the killer before time runs out. Its a task that would be much easier if everyone in the Beacon Hills estate wasn't harbouring their own secrets.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Murder Most Foul

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be a Downton Abbey AU, but, uh that didn't happen exactly. And I'm not really sure what the intersectionality between Downton Abbey fans and Teen Wolf fans is, but oh well.

 

 _Lady Lydia Whittemore_.

She pursed her lips and stared at her reflection in the mirror while Malia rolled her strawberry hair into an appropriate style. The name didn’t sound bad, of course. The Whittemores were one of the most prominent up-and-coming families in England, and it would be foolish to upend her imposing nuptials because they were…imposing. Lord Jackson Whittemore, her husband-to-be, was handsome, came from a good family, rich, everything any woman could hope for in her married life. But the fact of the matter was she liked Lady Lydia Argent much better. She already had the title thanks to her mother’s second marriage following her father’s death, and she would rather stay at Beacon Hills with her mother and step-father and step-sister. Her sister Allison had become her best friends once their parents were married, and she hated the idea of leaving that behind to move to the Whittemore estate with Jackson. But at least she had it better than Allison.

Allison was, at that moment, draped across Lydia’s bed in dismay, her dark hair already falling out of the careful pins Malia had put in it. Allison was supposed to be meeting her fiancé that night, at least the man their parents hoped she would marry, and Allison wanted no part in it. She wanted to run away with their father’s footman, Scott McCall.

“Maybe he won’t be so bad,” Lydia comforted as Malia put the finishing touches on her hair. “Maybe he’ll be handsome like Jackson.”

“Maybe I’ll run away before I have to marry him,” Allison countered.

“You don’t _have_ to marry him,” Lydia said. “It’s just a preliminary meeting to see if our father likes his father well enough to let the union take place.”

“And it’s just taking place at the biggest ball of the season when everyone from here to Highclere Castle will be in attendance!” Allison insisted.

“Are the Carnarvons really going to be here?” Lydia asked. “I thought they were in Egypt.”

“That isn’t the point and you know it,” Allison said. “The point is--”

“The point is you want to run off with Scott, and instead your marriage is being negotiated by our parents without your consent,” Lydia said. “I know. They already got to me, remember?”

“But it was different for you,” Allison said. “You weren’t in love with anyone, and you like Jackson.”

Lydia knew there was no reasoning with her when she was like this, and instead took the time to put in her pearl earrings. She didn’t feel like correcting Allison’s assertion that she “liked” Jackson, because she didn’t, and instead decided to subtly repudiate him by refusing to wear the jewellery he’d got her as an engagement present. She still had to wear the ring, but that was for appearances’ sake. She couldn’t imagine ever being happy with a man who attempted to discuss scientific discoveries and completely misrepresented Gregor Mendel’s principles of trait inheritance. Nor someone who got Pythagoras and Archimedes mixed up, especially not since she had read all of their works.

“Of course,” Lydia said hollowly, pulling Allison to her feet and adjusting her hair for her. Sometimes she envied her sister for her height and her dark eyes and dark hair. Lydia looked far too Irish most of the time.

“The guests are arriving,” Malia said, looking out Lydia’s dressing room window. They rushed over and looked at the line of carriages stretching up the front walk. It was barely dusk yet and the party was sure to last well into the next morning, the majority of the guests spending the night. Not the Hales, of course, as they lived in the next estate.

After she’d followed Gregor Mendel’s work about hereditary traits, Lydia had started to notice certain things about Malia. Technically, Malia was the daughter of their gardener, Mr Tate, and she was the same age as Lydia and Allison. Lydia had spent a good portion of their childhood teaching Malia the lessons she learned from her school books, since Malia didn’t get to attend any sort of school, or sit in with Lydia and Allison and their tutor. But after she read about Mendel’s work, she started to realise that Malia’s nose and mouth and the shape of her eyes were almost exactly that of Peter Hale from the next estate. Lydia hadn’t mentioned this to anyone, except Allison, and together they had inspected Malia’s little sister for the same signs. They weren’t there.

“I have to go back to the kitchens,” Malia said. “Do you need anything else?”

“No, we’re fine, thank you,” Lydia said, smiling at her and squeezing Allison’s hand. Malia curtsied and left.

“What if he’s awful?” Allison complained.

“He won’t be awful,” Lydia promised. “They would never force you to marry someone awful.”

_They would only do that to me, since I’m the least favourite daughter._

“You’re right,” Allison said. “But I don’t want to leave Scott.”

Lydia smiled sadly at her and hugged her tightly. “We’ll figure something out.”

 

Small tables had been set up around the sides of the ballroom. Lydia knew the seating had been assigned meticulously by her mother, as Lady Natalie Argent had insisted on making her and Allison help so they could practice for their future hosting requirements.

“No, we absolutely _cannot_ put Peter Hale at the same table as the Yukimuras,” Natalie had insisted. “They have a daughter your girls’ age who isn’t betrothed and I shudder to think what sorts of deals that man would try to make.”

That had been only one of a few examples. Peter Hale was also not allowed to sit near Lord Deaton, or Lady Morrell for reasons Natalie wouldn’t explain. Lydia and Allison spent the entire month leading up to the ball grumbling about it as soon as Natalie was out of earshot.

Now the ballroom had been resplendently decorated and adorned with the finest garnishes the Argents could find. Festoons of pine boughs and holly hung along the banisters and Lydia frowned when she noticed the mistletoe. It was a horrid plant in her opinion. But she was probably biased after Jackson had taken advantage of its presence to kiss her.

As soon as they reached the ballroom, Natalie bustled over to them and pulled them towards Chris. Thankfully, Jackson was nowhere to be seen.

“You both look so beautiful,” Chris said, smiling at them. “Lydia, where’s your fiancé?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea,” Lydia said, scanning the crowd for the familiar blond hair. She didn’t see him and considered it a blessing.

“Odd, I could’ve sworn he arrived earlier,” Natalie said, a crease appearing in her forehead. “I’ll have one of the footmen search for him.”

She snapped her fingers and Scott materialised from the crowd with a bright smile. Lydia didn’t understand Allison’s attraction to him. He seemed too much like a puppy, with his big brown eyes and eager-to-please grin. Then there was the matter of his uneven jawline.

“We’re missing Lord Whittemore,” Natalie said. “See if you can find him, would you?”

Scott nodded dutifully and did his best not to look at Allison before he disappeared back into the crowd.

“Lord Argent.”

All four turned to see who was addressing their patriarch and discovered an unpleasant looking man with spectacles and an uncomfortable sneer.

“Ah, Mr Lahey,” Chris replied, shaking the man’s hand formally. “And this must be your son.”

The younger man standing behind Mr Lahey was tall and trim and stared at the floor while his blond curls covered his eyes.

“Yes, my son, Isaac,” Mr Lahey said, dragging his son forward. Isaac Lahey winced at the grip his father had on his arm and looked up just long enough to say “how do you do” before he looked back down. He had lifted his head long enough for Lydia to see the black bruise near his hairline, marring an otherwise handsome face.

“Allison, why don’t you and your sister take the young Mr Lahey to the drinks table,” Natalie suggested. Lydia nodded in agreement before Allison could protest and took Isaac’s elbow.

“What would you like to drink, Mr Lahey?” Lydia asked.

“It’s Isaac, please call me Isaac,” he said. He looked down at Lydia’s hand on his elbow for a second and then went back to watching the ground just in front of his feet.

“Very well, Isaac, what would you like to drink?” Lydia asked.

“Nothing, I’m fine, thank you,” he said.

“Nonsense,” Lydia replied. “It’s a party. It’s the biggest Christmas party anyone’s going to throw and I’m quite sure you’re meant to be engaged to my sister.”

Isaac and Allison both gaped at her. Lydia ignored them and handed Isaac a brandy.

“My father thinks so, yes,” Isaac agreed. Lydia couldn’t help but notice how his face twisted as he said “father.”

“I’m sure you’re very nice, Isaac, but I would rather not marry,” Allison said. Lydia shot her a look and handed her a glass of punch, hopefully so that Allison wouldn’t say anything else problematic.

“I’d rather not either, but I haven’t often been in a position to control my own life,” Isaac said, taking a sip of his brandy.

“Neither have we,” Lydia said. “I shouldn’t worry about it too much.”

Isaac nodded and Lydia caught sight of the bruise on his face. She wondered if maybe he _should_ worry about it, but brushed the feeling off.

“I hear you’re betrothed as well, Lady Lydia,” Isaac said.

“Lydia will suffice,” Lydia said. “And yes I am. Although I have no idea where my fiancé has got off to. Mother sent the footman looking for him ages ago.”

It wasn’t like Jackson to miss parties, so she couldn’t begin to imagine where he’d gone. Ever since they’d been engaged eight months ago, he hadn’t failed to turn up to a single party. And he’d certainly never disappeared at one.

“I’m sure he just got lost attempting to find one of the maids,” Allison mumbled. Lydia narrowed her eyes and Allison innocently sipped her punch.

“That or he’s attempting to break into the wine cellar again and Mr Finstock is having trouble removing him,” Lydia said, frowning at the memory of her fiancé coming up against their head butler. It had almost ended their engagement on the spot, but Jackson’s parents had talked her father out of calling it off.

“Our parents certainly have excellent taste,” Allison whispered, and Lydia hoped it was quiet enough that Isaac didn’t hear her. Isaac seemed gentle, if not damaged, and she had no desire to damage him further, or let her sister do it.

The three of them stood by while the rest of the guests arrived. Lydia saw the Hales come in with their entourage and saw Chris’s face tighten. The Argents had an uneasy alliance with the Hales, established only recently after centuries of battling over the same patches of Yorkshire countryside. The truce had been moderately upset by Peter Hale’s existence.

Finally, the bell rang, and everyone found their seats. Isaac was shunted off to a separate table with his father and the Yukimuras, a very prominent family from Japan who had purchased an estate in England twenty years before. Their daughter was the same age as Allison and Lydia.

“Lydia, where _is_ your fiancé?” Natalie asked as the footmen brought in the dinner.

“I have no idea, mother,” Lydia replied, sipping her wine. “I haven’t seen him all night.”

Natalie frowned and then turned to make pleasant conversation with the person on her left. Lydia turned to Allison and was about to ask her what she thought of Isaac, when Scott crossed to their table in haste. He wasn’t carrying any food, which meant he hadn’t come from the kitchens like everyone else, and he was ashen. He paused next to Chris’s chair and whispered something in his ear. Lydia saw Chris straighten up and look concerned. Somehow she knew it had something to do with Jackson, but she couldn’t justify that suspicion.

“If you’ll excuse me for a moment,” Chris said, standing.

“Christopher,” Natalie protested. “You can’t simply abandon dinner.”

“I’m afraid it’s urgent, my dear,” Chris replied.

“Is it about Jackson?” Lydia asked.

Both Chris and Scott turned and stared at her sharply.

“How do you know that?” Chris asked.

“I don’t know,” Lydia said. “It was just a feeling I had. Why?”

“Stay here,” Chris instructed, following Scott out of the hall. Allison and Lydia glanced at each other.

“Mother, I’m so sorry, but I must go powder my nose,” Lydia said. She excused herself from the table and saw Allison start like she meant to go after her, but the other man at their table – Allison’s cousin from France, Lydia remembered – engaged her in conversation and Allison was stuck.

Lydia left the grand ballroom and crossed through the decadent entryway. Since everyone was eating dinner in the ballroom, it was entirely deserted. Because of that, she could hear the whispers coming from the grand staircase. She crept towards the corner and peeked around it to see her father, Scott, Mr Finstock, and the head of household, Mrs McCall, Scott’s mother, standing in a line and staring up at something. Mrs McCall had her hand over her mouth.

With an increasing sense of dread, Lydia followed their gaze upwards and barely stifled a scream when she saw what they were looking at.

A body was draped over the banister at the top of the stairs, a gash in his throat. Because the body was hanging by its ankle from the banister, the blood had run from the gash all across his face and down to a little pool on the floor. While Lydia stared, the body started to slip. The four jumped backwards as it fell with a sickening crunch to the ground. Lydia would’ve known the man anywhere – Jackson Whittemore.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just as an aside - Highclere Castle that Allison mentions is the actual castle where they film Downton Abbey and the Carnarvons are the family that lives there. The 5th or 6th earl (I don't remember) was responsible for helping Howard Carter fund his expedition to Egypt when he discovered Tutankhamen's tomb, and Lord Carnarvon brought his daughter with him when he went to Egypt - a daughter who was the inspiration for Evelyn Carnahan in the Mummy movies.


	2. The Inspector

 

Detective Inspector Stilinski sat at his desk in York, smoking his pipe. His son sat across from him in the office, frowning at his father’s pipe with disapproving eyes.

“I just think it can’t be healthy to have bits of things in your lungs,” Stiles – as he insisted on being called – said.

“Honestly, boy, let it go,” the inspector replied.

“I’m just worried about you,” Stiles said. “You won’t really fault me for being worried for my father.”

“I survived a war or two,” the inspector replied. “A pipe isn’t going to kill me.”

Stiles shrugged and drummed his fingers on the desk. The inspector stared at him as a heavy silence hung over the office. Stiles wanted the work day to be officially over so he could force his father back home for Christmas. The man had the tendency to overwork, and Stiles did his best to take care of him, often did a better job than their housekeeper, but Stilinski didn’t make it easy. Especially since he was romancing a woman somewhere in the countryside in the east riding and refused to let Stiles meet her. Stiles’ mother, Claudia, had died tragically ten years earlier, and the inspector had made no move to get remarried.

“Alright,” Stiles said when the clock started to strike six. “Let’s--”

Before he could finish his sentence, the telephone started to ring. The inspector gave his son a smug look and snatched it up, holding the ear piece up.

“Detective Inspector Stilinski,” he said. He nodded once or twice and then hung up the phone. He stood up and donned his cloak.

“Where are you going?” Stiles demanded. “It’s Christmas Eve…eve.”

“There’s been a murder,” the inspector said.

Stiles jumped out of his seat and threw on his own coat. “Can I help?”

He was sure he looked eager and overexcited because the inspector frowned at him disapprovingly and then sighed.

“I suppose,” he said, ushering Stiles out the door and down to the police carriage. Stilinski’s department hadn’t sprung for an automobile yet, no matter how much Stiles enthused about them. He had even offered to be the official driver for all of the department, but his father had refused.

Their stable boy saddled up the horses and loaded them both into the carriage. Stiles was glad at least for the fact of blankets in the back, because their driver was reliant on his coats.

“What do we know?” Stiles asked.

“It was at Beacon Hills,” Stilinski said, sounding tired. Stiles’ jaw dropped. Beacon Hills was the nicest estate in all of Yorkshire as far as he knew and looked like something out of the fairy-tales his mother had read him when he was a child. As he got older, he’d realised there was a sinister edge to the estate, and had come to the conclusion it was more like something out of Stoker’s _Dracula,_ which was the first novel he’d read as soon as he was twelve and his father let him. He decided it wasn’t at all like Frankenstein’s castle from Mary Shelley’s novel though.

“There was a murder at Beacon Hills?” Stiles asked, practically bouncing in his seat. “Who was it?”

“They didn’t say,” Stilinski replied. “But they’re trying to keep it quiet since they’re in the middle of their largest event of the season.”

Stiles could see it then, the ballroom probably festooned in the best decorations, the chef working around the clock for days to get all the food prepared and perfected, all the girls in their best dresses. There would be a small quartet playing music and there would be dancing. It was exactly the sort of event he would never get to attend.

They were taken to the servants’ entrance around the back of Beacon Hills and ushered through the snow into the kitchen. The cook gave them each a cup of soup to warm up and then showed them into the butler’s office. A small crowd was standing in, particularly the head butler, the head of household, one of the footmen, and the man of the house, Lord Christopher Argent.

Stiles watched the head of household stiffen at the sight of his father and saw his father determinedly avoid her eyes. Stiles kept his best poker face on and instead turned to look at the body lying on the butler’s desk. The man was barely older than he was if he had to guess, blond, handsome, perfectly dressed with diamond cufflinks. If it hadn’t been for the gash across his throat, Stiles was sure he would’ve been sickeningly perfect.

“Lord Argent,” Stilinski said, shaking the man’s hand. “And your staff?”

“Ah, yes, Detective Inspector Stilinski, this is my head butler, Robert Finstock, my head of house Mrs Melissa McCall, and her son, one of our footmen, Scott McCall,” Argent said. “And your assistant is…”

“My son, Stiles,” Stilinski said.

“Stiles…Stilinski?” Scott asked, looking like he would’ve been amused if it weren’t for the dead body lying in the room.

“It’s a nickname,” Stiles said. Scott nodded slowly.

“We need to know what happened,” Stilinski said, peering at the body closely. Stiles was sure the cause of death was the slice to the throat, but from the even thinness of the line and the fact it wrapped around the sides of his neck, he was pretty sure it was done with a wire instead of a knife.

“I suppose you ought to know who he is first,” Argent said. “Lord Jackson Whittemore, heir to the Whittemore estate. He was engaged to my younger daughter, Lydia.”

“I’m sorry for your family’s loss,” Stilinski said, and Stiles envied his father’s ability to say the appropriate thing in any situation, since it wasn’t a skill he shared. “Where was the body?”

“Hanging by his ankle from the banister,” Mrs McCall said. Stilinski glanced at her and quickly looked away, blushing slightly. Stiles narrowed his eyes.

“When was he last seen?” Stilinski asked.

“My wife noticed him arrive earlier in the afternoon, but then he disappeared,” Argent replied. “No one had seen him for hours. I sent Scott to find him, and when he did…”

“Have you told your daughter yet?” Stiles asked.

Every head in the room snapped towards him.

“Well, she was his fiancée,” Stiles said. “Shouldn’t we tell her that her fiancé is not going to be taking her dancing any time soon?”

“Lydia doesn’t go dancing,” Argent said dismissively. “And no, we haven’t told her.”

Stiles could understand why a woman of status, a lady no less, wouldn’t go dancing, but that made him wonder if she wanted to. What if Argent’s younger daughter wanted to go dancing but wasn’t allowed? And now that her fiancé was dead, she was probably going to end up married to someone of an equal estate who also wouldn’t let her go dancing and—

“Has anyone left the party?” Stilinski asked, derailing Stiles’ train of thought about Lydia Argent and her dancing activities.

“I don’t know,” Argent said.

“We’re going to have to question your guests,” Stilinski said. “And no one may leave. Mr Finstock, please secure the entrances and make sure no one comes in or out.”

The butler nodded and ran out.

“And how do you propose to question my guests without giving anything away? I can’t have it known that someone was murdered in my house, Inspector,” Argent said.

Stilinski glanced at Stiles and then at Scott.

“Stiles, I want you to borrow that young man’s nice clothes and act as a footman--”

“Footmen don’t get to ask questions of guests,” Mrs McCall interrupted. “He’ll need nicer clothes and to go as a guest.”

“Actually, I imagine Jackson’s clothes might fit you,” Argent said. “He might be a little broader than you, but shorter. It might even out.”

Stiles nodded, trying not to seem eager about the fact he was getting to investigate a murder while also attending a ball at Beacon Hills.

“Scott, you can show the young Mr Stilinski to Jackson’s rooms,” Argent instructed. “And Inspector, I’m sure you’ll be searching the house?”

“Absolutely,” the inspector replied. “Stiles, once you’ve got a list of suspects, come find me. If I’m done searching before you are, I’ll join you in the ballroom.”

Stiles nodded and followed Scott out of the kitchen and up the back stairs to the first floor. Jackson Whittemore’s rooms were beautifully furnished and the trappings Jackson had brought with him seemed to be more expensive than anything else in the room.

“You were the one to find him?” Stiles asked as Scott searched through Jackson’s things for a proper jacket.

“Yeah,” Scott agreed. “He must’ve been alive when Lord Argent asked me to find him, because he wasn’t in the entryway when I started looking. For almost an hour he wasn’t there.”

Stiles nodded slowly and changed quickly into Jackson’s clothes. They fit close to perfectly.

“Did he have any enemies who might have wanted him dead?” Stiles asked.

“Take your pick,” Scott said. “No one really liked him.”

“What about his fiancée?” Stiles asked.

“I think she liked him well enough,” Scott replied, helping Stiles do his bowtie.

“And do you have any idea why your mother and my father won’t make eye contact?” Stiles asked.

“I think they’re seeing each other,” Scott said without missing a beat.

“Of course they are,” Stiles said. He didn’t understand why his father wouldn’t introduce him to her, though. It wasn’t as though the Stilinskis ever used their status, since the inspector loved his work - something his peers did not understand. They had been summarily disinvited from formal events like the Argents' Christmas party almost as soon as Stiles finished school. Therefore, there was no reason for the inspector not to introduce Stiles to his lady-friend.

Although, if her son was a murderer, that would complicate things a bit.

“When was the last time you saw Lord Whittemore?” Stiles asked, doing up his cufflinks. The pair Scott picked were jade and looked imported. Stiles managed not to roll his eyes at the dead man’s extravagant taste.

“I didn’t see him arrive,” Scott said. “I didn’t know if he was even here. But he must have arrived with his possessions, one of the other footmen would’ve brought his things in here. Jackson’s valet would’ve helped him dress. And I don’t think anyone saw him after that.”

“What’s Jackson’s valet’s name?” Stiles asked.

“Danny,” Scott said. “Mahealani. He’s waiting tables right now though.”

Stiles nodded, knowing he would need to question Danny at some point. There were two prime suspects already in his head – Jackson’s valet since according to Scott, Jackson was unpleasant, and Lydia Argent, Jackson’s fiancée.

“Do you know who everyone at the ball is?” Stiles asked.

“Mostly,” Scott replied. “Most of them have been coming every year for the past…ever.”

Stiles nodded. “Anyone in particular stand out?”

“The Yukimuras from Japan,” Scott said. Stiles raised his eyebrow. “Uh, not as suspects, they just stand out.”

Stiles nodded again. “Anyone else?”

“Well, there are the Hales from the next estate,” Scott said. “Lady Talia Hale inherited the whole estate after her brother Peter was disowned when he was a teenager. But he’s been re-let into the household about eighteen years ago. Talia’s got three kids, Laura, Derek, and Cora, but I don’t think the three of them are anything to worry about.”

Stiles nodded. Whoever this Peter Hale guy was, he was almost certainly disgruntled.

“The earl’s sister is here, and she’s always disturbing,” Scott continued. “Lady Kate Argent. She’s much younger than the earl.”

“How do I recognise her?” Stiles asked.

“She’ll be the one flirting with Derek Hale,” Scott said. “And Peter Hale.”

Stiles raised his eyebrow and Scott shrugged.

“The dancing will be starting soon,” Scott said, leading Stiles out of Jackson’s rooms and towards the back entrance of the ballroom. They slipped in unnoticed and Stiles’ jaw dropped. The room was beautiful and a small choir was singing Christmas carols while the dancers twirled. He was so transfixed by the sight he didn’t notice Scott disappear and then reappear with another footman.

“Stiles, this is Danny,” Scott said.

“How do you do,” Danny said, looking confused as to why he was being introduced to someone who looked a gentleman.

“You’re Jackson Whittemore’s valet, aren’t you?” Stiles asked.

“Yes,” Danny said.

“When did you last see him?” Stiles asked.

“I helped him dress for dinner,” Danny said. “And he dismissed me so I could help the Argents’ household prepare for the ball.”

“When was that?” Stiles asked.

“Around four thirty,” Danny said.

And the body had been found around six. Which meant Jackson was missing for an hour and a half before he turned up dead.

“You didn’t see him at all after he dismissed you?” Stiles asked.

“No,” Danny said. “What’s this about?”

“Nothing, don’t worry about it,” Scott said. “We should clear the tables.”

Danny agreed and they left Stiles alone. Stiles stared around the room for a moment before he spotted something out of place. One of the young women at the ball looked ill. She looked beautiful, that was an absolute fact, but her green eyes darted nervously between people and her lips had gone white. Additionally, she wasn’t dancing.

Stiles figured she had to know something and crossed over to her. She was wearing pearls, which wasn’t that unusual he supposed, but then he noticed the sparkly diamond engagement ring on her finger. Instantly, he knew she had to be Jackson’s fiancée. Based on the things in Jackson’s room, there was no way he was going to buy his fiancée pearls if he could get her something fancy from abroad. Besides, she looked nervous. The kind of nervous someone might be after having their fiancée murdered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dracula by Bram Stoker was published in 1897. Stoker spent 7 years before publication researching European myths, particularly relying on Emily Gerard's essay about Transylvanian folklore, so while Stoker might have given us the modern vampire, he got it from a woman.


	3. Suspicious Activity

Lydia ignored Allison’s worried questions about what was wrong. She couldn’t tell her sister that she’d just discovered Jackson’s dead body hanging from the banister. She couldn’t let her know that their father was trying to cover it up. And she couldn’t do anything except encourage Allison to dance when Isaac found them after dinner. Fortunately, Natalie didn’t notice Lydia’s distress, and neither did the rest of their table mates.

As soon as the music started, Natalie was whisked off to dance by Mr Yukimura and Allison by Isaac. Lydia was perfectly content to stay where she was, wondering who would’ve possibly wanted to murder Jackson. Sure, she didn’t like him very much, but she didn’t want him dead. Of course, she no longer had a choice in that matter.

Allison’s cousin asked her to dance, but she declined, choosing to sit in her chair with her hands folded in her lap to keep others from seeing them shake.

“Pardon me, but would you care to dance?”

Lydia looked up to tell the man off, reply that no, she was waiting for her fiancé – for however long that lie would work – but froze when she saw him. He was taller than Jackson, long limbs, long fingers. He had bright brown eyes, and was smiling at her. And was wearing Jackson’s suit and cufflinks that she had given him as a birthday present that summer.

“Who are you?” Lydia demanded in a harsh whisper so the neighbours wouldn’t hear her.

The man looked taken aback. “Stiles Stilinski.”

“What sort of name is Stiles Stilinski?” she asked. If he was wearing Jackson’s suit then that suggested he knew Jackson was dead – might have even been the one to kill him.

“It’s my name, Lady Lydia,” Stiles replied. His hand was still out like he meant to keep it there until she danced with him.

She felt her lips thin, although she wasn’t sure if it was from anger that he’d killed Jackson or fear that he was going to kill her as well. Reluctantly, she placed her hand in his and he pulled her up. They had barely taken two steps on the dance floor when Lydia worked up the courage to ask, “Why did you kill Jackson?”

It took her a second to register the fact he had asked her the exact same question at the exact same time.

“What do you mean why did _I_ kill Jackson?” she whispered. “You’re the one wearing his suit and the cufflinks _I_ gave him because--”

“They’re the same colour as your eyes, yes, I noticed,” Stiles said. “And what do you mean why did _I_ kill Jackson? I got here after the earl called my father and asked him to come investigate.”

“You’re an investigator?” Lydia whispered, frowning at him. He didn’t look that much older than her or Allison.

“My father’s the best Detective Inspector in York,” Stiles replied. “I help out occasionally. Where were you between the hours of 4:30 and 6?”

Lydia gaped at him. She couldn’t believe he seriously thought she was responsible for Jackson’s death.

“From 3:30 until 5, my sister and I were in my dressing room getting ready for the party with the help of our maid, Malia Tate,” Lydia said. She’d read enough about detective work that she knew it was good to have an alibi that was able to be corroborated by other people. “And from 5 until 6, I was here in this room, with my sister and the man she’s probably supposed to marry, Isaac Lahey.”

Stiles frowned, looking confused by the fact she actually had people who could account for her presence.

“And have you seen Jackson at all today?” Stiles asked.

“No,” Lydia said. “My mother saw him arrive, but the only time I saw him was when I saw his body fall from the banister.”

She shuddered involuntarily at the mental image and Stiles' hand on her back was suddenly comforting.

“Do you know who might have wanted to kill him?” Stiles asked.

“No,” Lydia said. “Have you talked to Danny?”

“Yes, but we’re not supposed to let anyone know he’s dead,” Stiles said.

“Of course we’re not,” Lydia replied. “It’d be a scandal.”

Stiles nodded and scanned the room over the top of her head.

“Do you know everyone here?” he asked.

“Yes,” Lydia said. “They’ve all been coming to this party for years. At least since our parents married.”

“When was that?” Stiles asked, his brow furrowing. He was staring down at her intently and Lydia felt herself colour under his gaze.

“When Allison was two and I was under a year old,” she said. “Allison’s mother died shortly after Allison was born and I'm not sure my father lived to see my birth.”

Stiles nodded. “Can you think of any reason why Jackson might have been a target?”

“I suppose if someone wanted his wealth, but he’s the only heir to the fortune,” Lydia said. “It would’ve been me if we had got married before – before – anyway, no. It couldn’t have been because of his money.”

Stiles scrutinised her for a second. “What about other reasons? Someone opposed to your impending marriage?”

Lydia almost laughed at the fact he’d used the same word to describe them as she had, but stopped herself. It wouldn’t do to be seen laughing so soon after her fiancé’s death. She was already going to have to deal with going into mourning.

“No one else wants to marry me particularly badly,” she said. “So I can’t imagine it’s that.”

“And I can’t imagine that’s true,” Stiles said, giving her a disapproving look.

“Why not? My father’s fortune went to my mother, and then to her new husband. Allison stands to inherit everything, not me,” Lydia said.

This seemed to confuse Stiles.

“You think the only reason someone would marry you is for your fortune?” he asked.

“Maybe that isn’t how it works in your society, but it is in this one,” she said.

“Then why were you and Jackson engaged if you don’t stand to inherit anything and money is everything?” Stiles asked.

“Because the Whittemores are new money and they need the prestige of the Argent name,” Lydia said. “In Allison’s case, they’re looking for someone with money but no title so that Beacon Hills can stay in the family.”

Lydia tried to imagine why someone would want to murder Jackson. If it wasn’t for his money and it wasn’t for her, then what else would it possibly be? Revenge? But for what? And on Jackson himself or on his parents, or her parents, or her? Although she didn’t know anyone who wanted revenge on her, so she eliminated that possibility quickly.

Before she or Stiles could voice any other suspicions, Allison and Isaac appeared next to them. To Lydia’s surprise, Allison was smiling and didn’t let go of Isaac’s hand when they stopped dancing.

“Who’s your friend, Lydia?” Allison asked, smiling at Stiles.

“Stiles Stilinski,” Stiles said, taking Allison’s hand and kissing it quickly.

“He’s a friend of Jackson’s from Eton,” Lydia said quickly.

“Really?” Isaac asked, looking confused. “I don’t remember you from school.”

“Friend is sort of a loose term,” Stiles said, scratching the back of his neck. Lydia hoped Allison wouldn’t notice Stiles’ cufflinks, especially since Allison had helped her pick them out. At the same time, she also sort of hoped Allison would notice them because it would be an excuse to tell her.

“Especially at Eton,” Isaac agreed. “And since Jackson spent all his time playing cricket and talking about how he was going to marry the prettiest girl who would have him, I can’t imagine he really had that many friends.”

Lydia had never heard any stories about Jackson when he was at school, and realised he really didn’t have any friends that he mentioned.

“Well, he certainly found the prettiest girl,” Stiles said and Lydia stepped on his toe. He did his best not to wince.

“Have you seen him yet, Lydia?” Allison asked.

“No, I haven’t,” Lydia said. “Have you?”

“No,” Allison said. “He must have arrived while we were getting ready.”

“I’m sure he did, but where he’s gone since is the more important question,” Lydia said. “Isaac, you haven’t seen him, have you?”

“Not since Eton,” Isaac said. Lydia noticed he’d brightened up considerably since arriving and had arranged his hair to block the bruise on his hairline. She tried to remember when Isaac and his father had turned up. It was after five, but not by much. And Isaac hadn’t been out of her or Allison’s sight since then.

“That’s so odd,” Allison said. “It’s not like Jackson to miss a party.”

“No, it isn’t,” Lydia agreed. She was itching to tell her sister about Jackson’s death, because maybe Allison would be able to help Lydia figure out which emotions she should be feeling about it, but she didn’t want to tell Isaac that Jackson was dead and she didn’t want to discuss her emotions in front of Stiles.

“When did you attend Eton?” Isaac asked Stiles, and Lydia took advantage of Stiles’ distraction to grab Allison and pull her away from the boys.

“What’s wrong?” Allison asked at a whisper.

“Jackson’s dead,” Lydia said.

Allison’s jaw dropped. “What?”

“They found him earlier,” Lydia said. “I’m not supposed to know. But Stiles is the Detective Inspector’s son, helping with the investigation. We have to keep it quiet. Father doesn’t know that I know.”

Allison nodded, still in shock. “Are you alright?”

“Yes, but I know I shouldn’t be,” Lydia replied.

“Maybe you’re just in shock,” Allison suggested. Lydia lifted her shoulder and looked away. She knew she wasn’t in shock, but it was an easy escape for her. It would be the perfect excuse for why she wasn’t showing any distress over his death.

Well, that wasn’t entirely true. She was distressed about the fact the murderer was probably still in the house, since Finstock had sealed the doors as soon as they found the body and he was pretty freshly dead at the time, so it was unlikely that the killer had escaped. 

“Yes, maybe,” Lydia said. She wanted to tell Allison that no, she wasn’t, but it wasn’t the right moment. “You mustn’t tell anyone.”

“Of course not,” Allison agreed. “We shouldn’t leave Stiles alone with Isaac, especially if he didn’t really go to Eton.”

Lydia followed her back to the boys to discover they had been joined by several other Eton alumni and Stiles seemed oddly at ease with the situation.

“That’s so odd,” Isaac said as they walked up. “We were in the same house even and I don’t remember you.”

“I kept to myself mostly,” Stiles said. “And spent far too much time in the headmaster’s office.”

The other men in their group roared with laughter.

“But I did have occasion to talk to Jackson Whittemore more often than most,” Stiles continued. “I heard he was supposed to be here. Have any of you seen him?”

The men frowned and then scanned the crowds, looking confused.

“Come to think of it, no, I haven’t,” one of them said. “Lady Lydia, isn’t he your fiancé?”

“Yes, he is, but I haven’t seen him either,” Lydia said. “Mr Stilinski, we ought to go find him.”

She grabbed Stiles by the arm and dragged him away. Before she could ask if he’d discovered anything else, Isaac and Allison caught up to them.

“I hate to be rude, but where did you get that bruise on your head?” Stiles asked, raising his eyebrow at Isaac. Lydia could see his train of thought – Isaac had gone to school with Jackson, seemed to not particularly care for him, and was bruised in such a manner that might have been acquired in a struggle.

“Oh,” Isaac said, touching his forehead and looking uncomfortable. “I’m rather clumsy. I’m afraid I slipped in the corridor back home earlier.”

Stiles nodded and Lydia saw his eyes narrow briefly. The bruise had several darker marks in it that could’ve easily been a man’s knuckles. Now she was at least sure that Isaac was lying, but she wasn’t sure his lie had anything to do with Jackson.

“Actually, I ought to go find my father,” Isaac said. “He’s been speaking to Lady Argent extensively and I’m sure he needs to tell me something.”

He glanced down at Allison with a small smile and kissed her hand before he disappeared into the crowd.

“Did he have that bruise when he arrived?” Stiles asked.

“Yes,” Allison and Lydia replied.

“You sound concerned, Allison,” Lydia said, unable to help herself from nudging Allison in the ribs with her elbow. Despite the situation, it was easy to tease her about her apparent fondness for Isaac Lahey.

“I am concerned,” Allison said. “As far as arranged marriages go, there are far worse people I could end up with than Isaac Lahey.”

“People like Jackson Whittemore?” Lydia suggested.

Allison’s eyes widened. “No, Lydia, I didn’t mean it like that,” she said.

“It’s alright,” Lydia assured her. “Stiles, is there anyone else you need to interrogate?”

Stiles looked helplessly around the room. “Everyone except the Eton alumni and the three of you,” he said.

“We’ll split up then,” Lydia suggested. Stiles glanced at Allison. “I told her.”

“Oh,” Stiles said. “Fine. If anyone acts suspiciously when you ask them about Jackson, let me know. I’m supposed to give my dad a list.”

Lydia and Allison nodded and started to look for targets when Isaac appeared next to them, brow furrowed in confusion.

“Have any of you seen my father?” he asked.

While all three of them shook their heads, Lydia felt an uncomfortable prickling sensation on the back of her neck. She turned around to see nothing. No one was watching her, yet she could’ve sworn she felt someone’s eyes on the back of her neck.

She took a step forward and saw the drinks table pressed against the wall. She felt her head tip sideways, and was distantly aware of Stiles, Allison, and Isaac asking her what she was doing. There was a bump on the side of the linen and when one of the guests walked past, the breeze of her passing lifted the linen long enough for Lydia to see a shoe. While Stiles, Allison, and Isaac followed her over to the table, she lifted the cloth and had to quickly stifle another scream. Mr Lahey was lying under the table, his throat gashed just like Jackson’s.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cufflinks, while invented as early as the beginning of the 17th century, did not come into popular use until the end of the 18th. They ended up being useful because the fashion became to starch one's collars and cuffs. Of course, the starching that went into the cuffs made it impossible to keep them together with simply a button, and therefore the cufflink was established as common practice.


	4. A Motive Emerges

Stiles knew two things for sure after they discovered Mr Lahey’s body. One was that the killer was still in the house. Second, Lydia was excellent in a crisis.

Within seconds of discovering Mr Lahey’s body, she had fashioned a scarf out of the cloth serviettes on the drinks table and wrapped it around Mr Lahey’s bloodied neck. Thanks to the black fabric of his jacket and the placement of Lydia’s make-shift scarf, it was almost impossible to tell that the man was dead.

“Had too much to drink, I’m afraid,” Lydia explained to the curious guests while Stiles and Isaac had to manoeuvre the body out of the ballroom. Stiles could see the complete shock on Isaac’s face and counted that as decent evidence that he hadn’t snuck off, sliced his father’s throat, and then returned only to ask if any of them had seen his father. He was certainly in more shock than Lydia was about Jackson.

“Where are we taking him?” Isaac asked, his voice shaky.

“Down to the kitchens,” Lydia instructed, leading the way. “It’s where we put Jackson.”

“Jackson’s dead too?” Isaac demanded. “What’s going on here?”

“We don’t know yet,” Stiles said.

In the kitchens, they found Argent deep in urgent conversation with Finstock. When They showed up with Mr Lahey, Argent cast a dismissive look at the four of them.

“We’re in the middle of a serious conversation,” Argent said. “If Mr Lahey has had too much to drink, you’ll have to take him to the sitting room.”

Because Stiles and Isaac were too busy supporting the body, Lydia removed the scarf. Stiles was sure he would’ve been sick doing it, but Lydia didn’t even flinch.

“And we know about Jackson, as well,” Lydia said while Argent and Finstock’s mouths fell open.

“When did this happen?” Argent demanded.

“I don’t know,” Isaac said. “I just went to find him and…”

“And this was how we found him,” Stiles said. “Where’s my father?”

“He’s searching Jackson’s rooms,” Argent said, leading them down to the root cellar – cold in late December and also where they’d put Jackson’s body. “Lydia, Allison, I have to insist you go back to the party. We can’t let anyone know.”

“Two people are dead,” Allison said. “You can’t seriously expect us to go back to the ballroom and act like nothing’s happened.”

“That’s exactly what I expect,” Argent said. “I’ll let the inspector know of the new development. Mr Lahey, I’m sorry for your loss. If you’d like to leave, we would completely understand.”

“No I want to know who did this,” Isaac said.

Argent nodded as though he understood. “When my father died, I wanted to know everything as well, but unfortunately, that wasn’t possible. If we discover anything new, we’ll let you know.”

“It can’t be safe to go back to the ballroom,” Lydia insisted. “Mr Lahey was murdered _there_!”

“Both Jackson and Mr Lahey were murdered in public places,” Argent said, taking her arm. Stiles saw her wince. “The most likely scenario is that someone is trying to ruin our family. Tragedy, we can recover from. Scandal, we cannot.”

He let go of Lydia’s arm and she pulled Allison out of the room in a fury.

“Mr Stilinski,” Argent said, turning his attention to Stiles. Stiles gulped and hoped it was subtle. “You’re the inspector’s son. Don’t let my daughters out of your sight.”

Stiles nodded and ran out of the kitchens. He caught up with Lydia and Allison at the top of the stairs. Moments later, Isaac joined them.

“Why would someone be trying to ruin our family?” Allison asked. “We haven’t done anything to anyone.”

“At least not in the past few generations,” Lydia corrected.

“What do you mean?” Stiles asked.

“Our family and the Hales were constantly at war until Allison’s great-grandfather and the Hales’ great-grandfather,” Lydia explained. “Since then, we’ve been fine, but before that we weren’t.”

“So maybe this is the Hales trying to ruin your family?” Isaac suggested.

“But why would they pick Jackson and Mr Lahey?” Stiles asked.

His companions looked just as confused as he did, and Stiles couldn’t help but notice that Isaac wasn’t as concerned about his father’s death as he should be.

The four regained the ballroom just as a waltz was starting. Lady Argent spotted them instantly and seemed content to ignore their ashen and worried faces.

“Oh Allison, I see you’ve found Isaac,” Lady Argent said, squeezing Isaac’s arm. “You two ought to dance.”

With a worried look at Lydia and Stiles, they waltzed off. Stiles was glad they didn’t get lost in the crowd, at least partially because of Isaac’s height.

“And Lydia, who’s your…friend?” Lady Argent asked, smiling politely at Stiles.

“Stiles Stilinski,” Lydia said before Stiles could speak for himself. “He was a friend of Jackson’s at Eton.”

Stiles almost felt like pointing out that he was not a friend of Jackson’s at Eton, and that he had never once met Jackson while they were at school, but then he remembered Lydia had no idea he’d actually gone to Eton. He couldn’t account for Isaac’s not remembering, but then he didn’t remember Isaac either.

“Ah,” Lady Argent said, now smiling genuinely at Stiles. “Well it’s lovely to meet you. Perhaps you wouldn’t mind dancing with my daughter before some other men get any fresh ideas about Jackson’s absence and their luck.”

Stiles nodded and placed his hand on Lydia’s back again, noticing how small her hand was as she held his. He forced himself not to notice that her hand was also soft and that her face was flawless aside from the worry in her eyes.

“There has to be some sort of connection between Mr Lahey and Jackson,” she said as they danced closer to Allison and Isaac.

“They were both here,” Stiles said.

“They both went to Eton,” Allison suggested. “But if that’s the connection, most of the men in this ballroom might be in trouble.”

“They were both unpleasant?” Isaac said. “I didn’t know Jackson that well but--”

“But he was,” Lydia agreed. “And your father--”

“Was responsible for the bruise on my face,” Isaac said. Stiles saw sympathy flash in Allison’s eyes.

“Allison and Isaac are in negotiations to be engaged, aren’t they?” Stiles whispered, trying not to think about the fact he was much closer to Lydia than was polite. Or the fact she shivered when his lips brushed her ear.

“Yes, why?” Lydia asked.

Stiles saw understanding flash in her eyes when he leaned back. Jackson was Lydia’s fiancé and he was dead. Mr Lahey was negotiating for Allison’s hand for his son and he was dead.

“What is it?” Allison asked.

“One of the best connections between Mr Lahey and Jackson was that they were involved in our marriages in some way,” Lydia explained. Stiles didn’t protest when she stopped dancing and turned to scan the crowds. “I think Father is right, it is someone trying to ruin our family, but in a very specific way.”

“What? Kill off all our eligible suitors?” Allison asked, sounding like the idea was ridiculous. Stiles saw her eyes widen in horror. “What about the ineligible ones?”

“What do you mean?” Stiles asked.

“Where’s Scott?” Lydia asked.

“McCall?” Stiles asked. “What about him?”

Allison let go of Isaac’s hand and Stiles saw his own confusion mirrored by the other man. He couldn’t figure out why the girls would be concerned about one of the footmen if the targets had something to do with Lydia and Allison’s marriages. But if Scott was somehow involved with one of them, then…

“How many people knew about the fact Mr Lahey was working on a marriage?” Stiles asked.

“We didn’t meet until tonight,” Isaac said. “I think it was just my father, and Lord and Lady Argent.”

“And Allison, how many people know about you and Scott?” Stiles asked.

Allison’s jaw dropped while Isaac blinked in shock.

“Well, the four of us now, Scott obviously, Malia,” Lydia said, and Stiles was glad she was ignoring her sister’s discomfort.

“So no one who knows about Scott knew about Isaac, and no one who knew about Isaac knows about Scott,” Stiles said.

“Which means there’s someone we’re missing,” Lydia finished.

“We have to find Scott before the murderer does,” Allison insisted, grabbing Lydia by the hand and pulling her towards the servants’ entrance to the ballroom. Stiles and Isaac glanced at each other quickly before they followed.

“Where are we going to look?” Stiles asked. The back hallway wasn’t well lit, and the few spots of light only served to make the shadows darker and more ominous.

“I don’t know,” Allison said. “Anywhere. Everywhere.”

They didn’t argue with her, and instead followed her down the narrow hallway until they ran straight into someone. Allison squeaked while the person they ran into yelped and then Stiles lit a match. Scott was staring at the four of them with bewilderment.

“Scott!” Allison exclaimed, hugging him tightly. Scott hugged her back, although he looked confused by her enthusiasm.

“When you asked me to meet you in the study, I sort of thought you meant alone,” he said, scratching the back of his head awkwardly.

“I didn’t ask you to meet me in the study,” Allison said.

“Really?” Scott asked. He pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket and Stiles lit a second match. “The note said to meet you in the study because you had something to tell me.”

Allison grabbed the note and read it quickly.

“This isn’t my handwriting,” she said. “Where did you get this?”

Scott started to answer but Lydia interrupted him.

“Can we have this conversation somewhere else?” she asked, pushing open the door to the brightly lit back stairs. The five of them spilled into the spiral staircase and Allison passed the fraudulent note around.

“What do you mean it isn’t your handwriting?” Scott asked.

“I haven’t written you a note,” Allison said. “Someone else sent that. So where did you get it?”

“It was on the table in the kitchen,” Scott said. “Addressed to me so of course I read it.”

“I guess it looks like we were right,” Lydia said. “About the targets, at least.”

Stiles nodded in agreement. “Which means we have to keep Isaac and Scott hidden until we can figure out who’s doing this.”

“What’s going on?” Scott asked.

“We think that Jackson was murdered because of his engagement to me,” Lydia said. “And that Mr Lahey was murdered because he’s been negotiating for Allison’s hand.”

Scott blinked and looked down at Allison and then over at Isaac.

“If that really is why Scott got that note, then whoever sent it should be waiting for him in the study,” Stiles pointed out. “You four stay here, or somewhere else out of sight. I’ll be back.”

He ducked back into the dark back hallway and had gone a few steps when Lydia grabbed his elbow.

“You’re not going anywhere without me,” she said. She sounded so fierce that Stiles couldn’t imagine arguing with her.

“Where are Allison, Scott, and Isaac going?” he asked.

“To Allison’s dressing room,” Lydia said. “The only way in is through Allison’s bedroom and they can barricade that easily.”

“You shouldn’t be coming with me,” Stiles protested. “You should be with them.”

“Why? Because it isn’t safe?” Lydia asked. “You sound like Jackson.”

Stiles frowned at the back of her head and followed her through the back door to the study. He shook his head at the gilded crown moulding on the ceiling and the portraits of members of the Argent family stretching back generations. There were bookshelves full of crumbling and ancient volumes that he itched to touch and read, but then he remembered himself.

“How many entrances are there?” Stiles asked.

“Just three,” Lydia said. “The door to the entrance hall, the door to the library, and the servants’ door.”

It was abundantly clear that there was no one in the room besides the two of them.

“Maybe he heard us coming?” Stiles suggested. “Realised we weren’t Scott, and left?”

Before Lydia could answer, they heard voices approaching. A woman and a man, it sounded like, but they were whispering like they were trying not to be noticed.

“Hide,” Lydia hissed, pushing him behind a folding curtain. Stiles ducked behind it and Lydia crowded in behind him. Through the gaps in the fabric, he could see the door to the entrance hall open, and a pair stumbled in. She was blonde and lovely but with a cruel curve to her mouth. He was tall and perfectly groomed, older than she was, and had shrewd blue eyes.

“No one ever comes in here except my brother,” the woman said.

“Excellent,” the man replied, pulling her into a heated kiss.

Stiles glanced at Lydia for some hope of explanation, but her jaw dropped and she squeaked. Stiles wondered that she could look at multiple dead bodies in one night and barely flinch, but at the sight of two people kissing passionately in a study, she squeaked.

“Did you hear that?” the woman asked, breaking away from her companion and scanning the room. Lydia looked petrified and looked desperately around for escape. The two people were searching the room now and Stiles didn’t have time to come up with his own plan before Lydia grabbed his face.

“Just play along,” she whispered urgently, and then she kissed him.

Stiles stayed too shocked to do anything for a full count of three, and then placed his hands on her waist. He wanted to touch her hair, but he got the sense she was the type of girl who would smack him if he damaged her hairdo.

“Well, well, well,” the man said, and Stiles opened his eyes to discover the man staring down at them with his eyebrow raised and a smirk on his face. “What _are_ you doing to that poor boy, Lydia?”

“Nothing,” Lydia insisted, letting go of Stiles. He figured he had to look at least half as dazed as he felt, because the man looked deeply entertained by the situation.

“Lydia?” the woman asked, frowning down at the two of them. “What are you doing in here?”

“We were just trying to--”

“To stay out of sight,” the man said. “I’m sure you of all people can appreciate that, Kate.”

Stiles glanced between the two and realised they had to be Kate Argent and Peter Hale.

“Jackson won’t be thrilled if he finds out about this,” Kate said, nodding at Stiles.

“No, I can’t imagine he would be,” Lydia agreed. “And if you don’t tell him, then we won’t tell anyone about the two of you.”

Peter and Kate exchanged looks and then nodded. Lydia grabbed Stiles’ hand and pulled him towards the library door. Once they were safely barricaded inside, he realised she was breathing shallowly like she was scared.

“What’s wrong?” he asked. Of course, that was a stupid question, but it only occurred to him after he asked. Of course something was wrong. Her fiancé had been murdered, her sister’s presumptive father-in-law had been murdered, her sister’s boyfriend had been targeted, and the only people to turn up in the place where said boyfriend was meant to appear were her aunt and next door neighbour.

“Peter Hale was disinherited from his own family years ago,” she said, tugging him towards the servants’ door. “He doesn’t have anything and lives on his sister’s good graces. Kate was written out of our father’s will just before he died. But if Allison and I – if we don’t--”

“If neither of you have heirs, then Kate stands to inherit everything?” Stiles guessed.

Lydia nodded, and it was with creeping dread that Stiles followed her into the dark hall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The waltz originated in Austria and Southern Germany, some of the earliest references to it appearing in the 16th century, where it was originally a peasants' dance, until the late 18th century when the noblemen got bored of dancing minuets and figured out that waltzing was more fun and made one dizzier faster. (that last is opinion based after spending several years in ballroom dance classes)


	5. Death Comes to Beacon Hills

Lydia was shaken by the idea that Kate would be behind the murders of her and Allison’s fiancés. There had to be an easier way to get money from the family – one that didn’t involve slicing men’s throats.

She didn’t realise she was headed towards her dressing room until Stiles asked where they were going. She also didn’t realise she was still holding Stiles’ hand. She let go quickly and clasped her hands together.

“We ought to find your father,” she said.

“Yes, you should,” a voice agreed from behind them. They jumped and turned, and Lydia couldn’t help but notice Stiles quickly pulled her back so she was behind him. She frowned at his back and glanced around him to discover a man who had to be Detective Inspector Stilinski.

“You scared us,” Stiles said, relaxing at the sight of his father. Lydia, however, noticed the note he was holding and felt her blood run cold. “Did you find anything?”

The inspector ignored him and addressed Lydia instead.

“Lady Lydia, when did you last see Jackson Whittemore?” the inspector asked.

“When I helped Stiles and Isaac and my father put Mr Lahey’s body in the root cellar,” Lydia replied. “Before that, when his body fell from the banister, and before that it had been several days.”

“You didn’t meet him in the study?” the inspector asked.

“No,” Lydia replied. “That’s what the note says, isn’t it? That I wrote it and that it asked Jackson to meet me in the study.”

The inspector frowned and took a step towards them. Lydia didn’t feel particularly threatened by him, but Stiles stepped back and kept her behind him.

“She didn’t write it,” he said.

“You can’t know that,” the inspector said.

“I didn’t,” Lydia insisted. “And Scott got the same note, except it said it was from Allison.”

The inspector frowned. “Scott McCall? Melissa’s – I mean Mrs McCall’s son?”

Stiles and Lydia nodded.

“Can I see the note?” the inspector asked.

“They’re in Allison’s dressing room,” Stiles said. “We think the murders have something to do with keeping Lydia and Allison from marrying.”

“Because the killer wants them for himself, or because--”

“We think it might be because if we have no children, then the estate goes to Allison’s aunt Kate,” Stiles said.

“So Kate’s behind this?” the inspector asked.

“We don’t know that,” Lydia said, still unwilling to let herself believe Kate was behind it. After all, the only thing they had actually seen Kate doing was kiss Peter Hale.

“But she’s a suspect,” the inspector said.

“Yes,” Lydia and Stiles agreed. Lydia knocked on Allison’s door.

“Who is it?” Allison called.

“It’s me,” Lydia said. “And Stiles and the detective inspector.”

The lock clicked and the door swung open to reveal Allison standing alone in her room. Once the three were inside, she shut the door and the smaller door to Allison’s dressing room opened slowly. Isaac and Scott’s heads poked out, and once they determined it was safe, they joined the rest in the main room.

“Scott, I’m told you received a note asking you to the study,” the inspector said.

Scott nodded and handed it over.

Lydia and Stiles crowded close to check the handwriting and discovered it was exactly the same.

“And you’re sure this isn’t your handwriting, Lady Lydia?” the inspector asked.

“It isn’t her handwriting,” Allison said. “It isn’t mine either.”

The inspector groaned. “If the targets really are people who could assist you two ladies in getting married, then we need a complete list of everyone you’ve been engaged to, or potentially engaged to, or…or anything like that.”

“I don’t think we’re the ones to ask,” Lydia said. “We didn’t know about Isaac until tonight. You’ll have to ask our father.”

The inspector sighed. “You’re right,” he said. “He went back to the ballroom to keep people from speculating. I’ll have to go talk to him.”

“Dad,” Stiles said, catching him before he could leave. “You can’t go to the ballroom dressed like that.”

Lydia thought the inspector’s exasperated expression was endearing, especially when Stiles took his cape and hat and tie.

“Scott, we need your bowtie,” Stiles said. Scott handed it over without question and by the time they were done with him, the inspector looked like he could have been one of the footmen.

“Stiles, while I’m getting the names from the earl, I need you to search Mr Lahey’s body for another note,” the inspector instructed. “And see if you can’t figure out who delivered the note to Jackson Whittemore. Scott, where did you get yours?”

“It was lying on the table in the kitchen,” Scott said.

“Was anyone in the kitchen at the time?” the inspector asked.

“Lots of people,” Scott said. “The cook, several of the maids, my mother, Mr Finstock, half of the other footmen…we were getting ready to send the dessert up.”

“So any of them could’ve delivered it,” the inspector surmised. “Fine. Ladies, Isaac, Scott, stay here and lock the door against everyone except the two of us.”

The inspector left and the five of them stood in anxious silence for a moment.

“A detective inspector’s son went to Eton?” Isaac asked finally, looking confused.

“I made that up,” Lydia explained. “We didn’t know if you were responsible for killing Jackson yet, and needed to keep it quiet that a detective inspector was in the house.”

Stiles smoothed his borrowed jacket and turned to face the door. “Well, I’m going to go search a dead body.”

As soon as he was out the door, Allison shuffled Scott and Isaac back into her dressing room and dragged Lydia over to the mirror. She didn’t say anything, just pointed. Lydia cringed when she noticed her lipstick was atrociously smudged. She quickly wiped it off.

“Who did you kiss?” Allison whispered.

“We were investigating the study, because that’s where Scott’s note told him to go, but then Aunt Kate and Peter Hale walked in and we had no reason to be in there so I kissed Stiles,” Lydia explained.

Allison gaped at her. “But Jackson _just_ died,” she said.

“It’s not because I like him, Allison, it was a cover,” Lydia said.

“Although he is cute, I suppose,” Allison added. Lydia glared at her. “Sorry.”

She handed Lydia new lipstick and then frowned.

“What was Aunt Kate doing with Peter Hale?” she asked.

“They were kissing,” Lydia said.

Allison grimaced in apparent repulsion, but Lydia froze.

“What?” Allison asked.

“They saw me kissing Stiles, and they’re on the suspects list and we’ve just let Stiles go off on his own,” Lydia explained. “Stay here.”

Allison nodded in agreement and Lydia ran out of the room. Stiles wasn’t in the hallway, so she ducked into the servants’ hall. In the dark, she could hear echoing footsteps from the stairwell and ran towards them. A storey down, she could see coattails whipping around the curve. She ran after them and caught up with Stiles at the kitchen level. He jumped when she grabbed his wrist.

“What is it?” he asked. “Did something else happen?”

Lydia shook her head and tried to catch her breath. She didn’t like Stiles, she was telling the truth to Allison, but she didn’t want to be responsible for his death either.

“Allison and I just realised you might be one of the targets now,” she explained after she had finished composing herself. “And so we figured you ought not be left alone.”

Stiles nodded, his brown eyes wide while he processed that information.

“Alright,” he said, leading the way to the root cellar. When he pushed open the door, Lydia froze at the sight of Jackson lying on the ground. Someone had crossed his hands over his chest and closed his eyes, but suddenly Lydia could hear him complaining about his jacket getting dirty. If he were alive, he would be exceptionally upset that he was lying on a dirt floor, especially next to someone as unimportant as Mr Lahey. For the first time, it truly sunk in that Jackson was dead. As much as she hadn’t liked him, she certainly hadn’t hated him, and she could’ve done a lot worse. And now it seemed she was doomed to.

“Lydia?” Stiles asked.

She started and hastily brushed away the dampness under her eyes. She expected Stiles to avert his gaze and go back to searching Mr Lahey’s pockets, but instead he wrapped his arms around her and held her while she shook.

“It just caught up to me that he was dead,” she explained. She was torn between forcing herself away from Stiles and drying her eyes, or letting him comfort her. She reasoned that it was cold in the cellar and Stiles was rather warm, so there was no real harm in letting him keep his arms around her for a while.

“You were probably in shock,” Stiles said soothingly.

“But I wasn’t,” she said. “I’m not. I just can’t shake the feeling that all this is my fault somehow.”

“It isn’t,” Stiles said. “But, erm, I’ve found the note, so…”

She let go of him immediately and opened the door to the cellar. As soon as it was shut behind them, she started to feel better.

“What does it say?” she asked.

“Meet me in the study so we can discuss our agreement, C. Argent,” Stiles read. “It’s the same handwriting. So they must be signing the notes from whoever they think is most likely to convince the target to come.”

Lydia nodded, because it made sense, and then she spotted Jackson’s footman.

“Danny!” she called, fixing a bright smile on her face.

Danny jumped and looked confused.

“Did you find Jackson?” he asked.

“No,” Lydia and Stiles chorused.

“But we found a note in his room,” Stiles said. “Do you know who delivered it?”

“A note?” Danny asked. “No. I didn’t see anything. Is he alright? He’s been missing for three and a half hours.”

“We’re looking,” Lydia promised, pulling Stiles out of the dark cellar hall.

“Lady Lydia?”

The woman standing in the kitchen doorway was one of their maids, a woman named Meredith. Lydia had never really interacted with her, but everyone said that she was a little off colour.

“I delivered a note to Lord Whittemore’s room,” Meredith said.

“You did?” Lydia asked. “When?”

“Around five thirty,” Meredith replied.

“Who gave you the note?” Stiles asked.

“I didn’t know him,” Meredith said. “But he was older, and--”

“Meredith!” the cook bellowed.

“Sorry, I have to go,” Meredith said, running back into the kitchen.

“Wait, Meredith--”

Lydia and Stiles rushed after her to the kitchen, but they were evicted with little ceremony by Mr Finstock.

“You should both return to the party,” he said. “I’m sure your father’s worried, Lydia.”

“But we have to talk to Meredith!” Lydia insisted.

“She hasn’t left the kitchen all night,” Finstock assured them. “I’ll let you know if she says anything else, but I’m sure she didn’t do whatever it is she’s claiming. Now you two should leave before I’m forced to drag you up to the ball myself.”

No one moved for a very long time, and then with a sigh, Finstock grabbed them both by the back of the neck and steered them out of the kitchen, up the back flight of stairs, and into the entrance hall. Lydia gaped at him indignantly while he sealed the door behind him and they heard a lock click.

“We’ve got to tell my dad,” Stiles said, taking her hand and pulling her into the ballroom. They spotted the inspector deep in conversation with Argent in the corner.

“I’m not supposed to be here,” Lydia said. “You go tell him.”

“My father’s not going to scold you for leaving Allison’s room,” Stiles said. “And besides, your father told me not to let you out of my sight.”

Lydia huffed and they worked their way through the crowd. Both Argent and Stilinski looked up as they approached and frowned.

“What is it?” the inspector asked.

“One of the maids, Meredith, says she delivered a note to Jackson’s room this afternoon,” Lydia explained. “But Mr Finstock claims she didn’t leave the kitchen, and then threw us out of the kitchen before we could ask her anything else.”

“I’ll go talk to Meredith,” the inspector offered. “Lord Argent, if you could have your men find Jordan Parrish.”

“Of course,” Argent agreed.

“And you should seriously consider sending everyone home,” the inspector said.

“But Dad, one of these people is the killer and we have no idea who,” Stiles pointed out.

The inspector sighed again and left the room.

“Which of us was Jordan Parrish intended for?” Lydia asked.

“For a while, you,” Argent said. The three of them scanned the room. “Is Isaac safe?”

“Yes,” Lydia said. “Can you see Mr Parrish anywhere?”

“No,” Argent said. “Which worries me. Lydia, please go find Allison and stay with her.”

“But Allison and I aren’t the targets,” Lydia protested.

“Mr Stilinski, please escort my daughter back to her sister,” Argent said.

Lydia glared at Stiles. Argent glared harder. After an impossibly long moment, Stiles took Lydia by the elbow and steered her out of the room.

“I can’t believe you’re siding with him,” she said.

“We can’t look for whoever this Parrish guy is if we’re in the ballroom,” Stiles whispered, giving her a small smile. Lydia returned it and allowed him to steer her into the entrance hall. “Now, was Parrish going to stay overnight or--”

His question was interrupted by a shriek from the servants’ hall. They glanced at each other and ran for the door, only to discover it was still locked. Lydia led the way into the study – thankfully empty – and through the door. In the dim light, she saw Malia holding her hand over her mouth and staring down at a body.

“Malia!” Lydia exclaimed, rushing forwards and grabbing her arm. Malia looked up at her with horrified eyes.

“Is that him?” Stiles asked, looking down at the body. Lydia looked as well, putting her arm around Malia’s shoulder while she shook.

“No,” Lydia said, her heart wrenching on Malia’s behalf. “That’s our gardener, Mr Tate.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first commercial lipstick was created in 1884 in France by perfume makers. It was around this time that lipstick started to be considered less uncouth than it had been, as it was no longer relegated to prostitutes and actors. Additionally, a law was proposed in England in 1770 that stated a marriage should be annulled if a woman wore makeup prior to marriage.


	6. The Passageway

Stiles felt awful for Lydia’s maid as he dragged Mr Tate down the stairs to the root cellar. He paused before he got to the kitchen and Lydia ran into the room to get the inspector. Stiles saw his dad look down with sad eyes, and then together they carried Mr Tate to the cellar. Lydia stayed with Malia in the kitchen while the cook made her a cup of tea.

“Mr Tate was definitely not promised to either of the girls,” the inspector said as they arranged him next to Jackson and Mr Lahey.

“No,” Stiles agreed. He examined the gash on Mr Tate’s throat and then frowned. While both Jackson and Mr Lahey had been killed by the same sort of wire, the cut on Mr Tate was almost certainly from a knife. “It’s a different weapon.”

“Different weapon means it was either the same person with a different weapon, or it was a different person,” the inspector said. He closed his eyes briefly and Stiles steered him out of the root cellar.

“Regretting answering the phone?” he asked.

The inspector nodded. “I never wanted to be involved in a spree of murders. Never in my career. Or, never again, anyways.”

“What do you mean ‘never again’?” Stiles asked.

“Your mother and I moved out of London in ’89, after the Whitehall murders,” the inspector explained. “We’re at the same number of bodies, but at least they’re not mutilated this time.”

“We forgot to check Mr Tate for a note,” Stiles said, trying to supress his shock that he had lived in London during Jack the Ripper’s reign. He had always thought he was born in York.

“I’ll check. You go make sure those girls are okay,” the inspector said. “And see if you can’t find Meredith. She vanished when we heard the scream.”

Stiles nodded and returned to the kitchen. Finstock glowered at him, but didn’t say anything. Lydia was sitting next to Malia at the table and had one hand on her arm while Malia drank her tea.

“Malia,” Stiles said gently, sitting on her other side. She looked up at him and he had the sudden impression he was looking at the female version of Peter Hale. He shook it off. “Malia, is there any reason someone might want to hurt your father?”

“They didn’t hurt him,” she said. “They killed him! And who are you anyways?”

“Malia, he’s the detective inspector’s son,” Lydia said. “He’s trying to help.”

“My father didn’t do anything to anyone,” Malia insisted.

Stiles nodded, trying not to be confrontational. It wouldn’t help in this situation.

“If you can think of anything, please, let me or my father know,” Stiles said, standing up and crossing to Finstock. “Did you see where Meredith went?”

Finstock blinked and then scanned the kitchen like he expected her to be there. Stiles joined him, and they discovered that she wasn’t in the room.

“Am I about to find another dead body?” Finstock asked, looking harried.

“At this rate? You won’t be the one to find it, at least,” Stiles said, clapping him on the shoulder. He meant to return to Lydia to tell her they should keep looking for Parrish, but he caught sight of his father in the hallway.

“There wasn’t a note,” Stilinski said. “So my guess is Mr Tate’s death had nothing to do with the others.”

“Great,” Stiles said. Stilinski raised his eyebrow. “I mean, not _great_ , just – Mr Tate didn’t fit the pattern, so if he had been involved, we would’ve needed to revise our theory and – anyways, Lydia and I are going to go find the man she was supposed to be engaged to once.”

The inspector nodded for a second, but grabbed Stiles’ arm as he went to duck back into the kitchen.

“Which one of you is following the other around like a lost puppy?” he asked.

“What?” Stiles asked.

“I’m assuming it’s you following that girl around but remember, she just lost her fiancé, and you’re a detective inspector’s son,” Stilinski said.

Stiles gaped at his father. “I am offended that you would think I was investigating these murders with Lydia because I find her attractive.”

“You don’t?” the inspector asked, raising his eyebrow.

They both glanced through the window back to the kitchen to see Lydia’s sympathetic expression, her vibrant green eyes, perfectly done strawberry hair, the purple dress that fit her excellently.

“I absolutely find her attractive, but that’s not why we’re working together,” Stiles said. “She’s frighteningly intelligent.”

The inspector nodded and let go of him. Stiles opened the kitchen door and started to take a step in, then paused and turned back.

“And mind you, I’m the son of a detective inspector who happens to be hiding from a hereditary seat in the house of lords,” Stiles said, grinning briefly at his father and then ducking into the kitchen before the inspector could comment.

Lydia stood up as he approached. “We should find Parrish before--”

Malia looked between them, still obviously in shock.

“Before what?” she asked. “What about my father?”

“We’ll find out who did this,” Stiles said. “I promise.”

Lydia nodded and followed Stiles out of the kitchen and back up the stairs.

“I think Mr Tate might have been an unrelated murder,” Stiles said as they stepped into the entrance hall. “There was a different weapon, and no note.”

“So someone used the fact people are dying to murder Mr Tate because it would be the perfect cover?” Lydia guessed. “Wonderful. Now we have two murderers.”

“And Meredith probably could’ve identified the person who gave her the note, but she’s disappeared.”

“And so the real question is – are we going to find her body first or Jordan Parrish’s?” Lydia finished.

“Did Parrish have any good friends here who might have seen where he went?” Stiles asked.

Lydia opened her mouth to answer, but they heard a thud from the study. Without pausing, she ran to the door, Stiles close behind her. But the room was empty.

“You did hear that thudding sound, didn’t you?” Lydia asked. Stiles nodded and scanned the room. There was a piano in the corner, the lid lifted. The door to the library was sealed, the servants’ door was sealed, absolutely nothing was out of place. At least, nothing looked out of place.

They started searching the room and Stiles found himself behind the screen where they had hidden earlier. It provided an unnecessary reminder that Lydia had kissed him and he was about ready to leave that place when he noticed the corner of the rug was kicked up.

He crouched down to look for shoe marks, and saw a faint scratch in the wood floor that fanned out in a semi-circle. He traced it back to the wall and the corner of a portrait. He stepped back and looked at the painting for the first time.

It was an old man, white hair, an imperious air about him. He was impeccably dressed and stared stoically out of the picture frame.

“Who is that?” Stiles asked.

“That was the last earl,” Lydia said. “Our father’s father. He died before Allison or I were born.”

Stiles nodded slowly and traced the edge of the painting. His finger caught on the side of the frame near eye-level and when he pressed, there was a click. Slowly, the portrait swung forwards. The corner of the frame followed the semi-circle scratch on the floor and the gaping chasm behind the painting exuded and ominous air.

“We should get your father,” Lydia suggested, and Stiles noticed she was holding his wrist tightly. He wasn’t sure if it was to stop him from going in, or if it was for her own comfort’s sake.

“Right,” Stiles said, picking up a candelabra from the desk and pulling out his book of matches. Lydia let go of his wrist long enough to let him light it. “Because whether the murderer has Meredith or Parrish down there, I’m sure they’ll be fine for however long it takes us to find my father.”

Lydia narrowed her eyes at him and took his hand again before they stepped into the dark passage. It led immediately to a set of stairs that went down. Dust clung to the sides of the staircase, but a shiny stripe had been recently polished in the centre. It was about the width of a body.

Stiles tried not to look or act nervous as they tiptoed down the stairs. At the bottom, the passage was damp and slimy and stretched in either direction while continuing straight forwards as well.

“Which way do we go?” Lydia whispered.

“I don’t know,” Stiles said. “This is your house.”

Lydia’s nails dug briefly into the back of his hand and then she nodded to the left. Stiles followed her instruction and cursed the fact his footsteps echoed in the dank tunnel.

“Did you know this place was here?” he asked.

“No,” Lydia said.

They followed the tunnel until they reached another set of stairs. Quickly, they snuck up them and pushed open the door at the top. It was heavier than the portrait in the study, and when they stepped into the dark room on the other side, they discovered the conservatory. The entrance to the secret passage was completely disguised as part of the wall.

“There’s no one here,” Stiles said, pulling the wall open and leading the way back into the tunnel. He wasn’t sure if it was his own hand or Lydia’s that shook with nerves.

They followed the tunnel past the stairs to the study and continued until they reached what looked like a dead end. At least, Stiles thought it was a dead end until Lydia let go of his hand long enough to examine the candle holder on the stone wall. She pulled it down, and the wall to their left made a clicking noise. Stiles pushed it open and they found themselves in the very bottom of the servants’ staircase.

“You could get through the whole house and never be seen,” Lydia said. “The passage to avoid the servants, the servants’ halls to avoid everyone else. No one would ever see you.”

“That’s a horrifying thought,” Stiles replied, scanning the stairs. They looked completely deserted, except for the sounds above of the maids and footmen running around to turn down beds for the guests who would be staying the night.

“I can’t believe they’re letting people stay here when all this is going on,” Lydia whispered.

“Well, if they’re here, my father and yours can keep an eye on them,” Stiles pointed out. “See if any of them are acting suspiciously. And all of the targets were here anyways. Like Mr Lahey and Isaac and Mr Parrish.”

“And Jackson,” Lydia said. “And Scott. Any of the men who had any say in Allison or me getting married. Fortunate Jackson’s parents aren’t here, otherwise they would probably be dead too.”

Stiles was truly impressed with how composed she was despite the fact they were both clearly terrified and the fact her fiancé had been murdered only four hours before. And the fact the key suspect was her aunt.

“We should see where the third part of the tunnel goes,” he suggested, turning to try and open the wall. When he did, he noticed the spot of blood on the floor. “Or follow that.”

Lydia looked where he was pointing and paled even more than she already had. Stiles blew out the candles and followed the drops of blood to the servants’ hall. They didn’t have to look far for the source, because the man was leaning against the door to the courtyard, his eyes still open, wire slice on his throat.

“That’s Mr Parrish, isn’t it,” Stiles said, although he knew the answer.

Lydia trembled and without thinking about it, he wrapped his arms around her. She buried her face in his chest and shook.

“All of this is my fault,” she said.

“It isn’t your fault that someone is trying to destroy any of your and your sister’s chances for decent marriages,” Stiles said. “And thereby ruin the family because no one will have you because it gets them killed. At which point the family fortune will pass to the next male heir, who’s probably whichever man ends up married to your aunt.”

“We have to find Peter Hale,” Lydia said.

“I’ve already found him.”

Stiles let go of Lydia immediately at the sound of his father’s voice.

“Is he dead?” Stiles asked, since that was the tone the inspector was using.

“No,” Stilinski said. He glanced around both of them. “I’m assuming that’s Mr Parrish?”

They nodded.

“Where did you find Hale?” Stiles asked.

“We found him attempting to wash the blood off his hands,” the inspector said. “But when I asked him why he would kill Jackson or Mr Lahey, he simply looked confused that they were dead. And we tested both his handwriting and Kate Argent’s, and they weren’t the ones to send the notes.”

“Why did he have blood on his hands then?” Lydia asked.

“Oh, he confessed to killing Mr Tate,” the inspector said. “And went off about--”

“Because Malia’s his daughter,” Lydia and Stiles interrupted in unison.

The inspector blinked at them both.

“Lady Lydia, you’d make an excellent detective,” he said. “Son, help me move Mr Parrish.”

Stiles nodded and grabbed Parrish under the arms.

“We need to look for a note,” he pointed out. Before the inspector could do it, Lydia crouched next to the body and searched his pockets. She came back with a folded piece of paper signed with an elaborate L.

“Asking him to meet in the study to potentially renegotiate our engagement,” Lydia explained.

“I’m going to go tell Argent that we have to send people home,” the inspector said. “All of the targets have either been killed or are locked away safely. If the killer really wants Isaac and Scott dead – and someone needs to explain why Scott is a target since he’s the head of household’s son, not a potential marriage option for Allison Argent – then the murderer won’t leave. Clearly, he’s adept at hiding, so…”

“There are secret passageways,” Stiles said. “Connecting the study, the servants’ staircase, and the conservatory. And a third tunnel that we didn’t get a chance to explore.”

“I don’t want you doing that,” the inspector said.

“Someone has to,” Stiles pointed out. “And it’s not like I’m a target.”

The inspector glanced between them and looked deeply exhausted.

“If he goes, you’re going to follow him, aren’t you, Lady Lydia?” he asked.

Lydia didn’t say anything, which the inspector took as confirmation of his worst fears.

“Take this,” the inspector said, handing Stiles a revolver. “And be very, very careful.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Fact: (although "fun" might be stretching it) During the investigation of Jack the Ripper in London in 1888, Scotland Yard received a human kidney in the mail that showed signs it had been chewed on by human teeth. The note included with it proposed the idea that it was sent by the Ripper, and at some point between 1888 and 2014, the Yard misplaced this evidence.


	7. The Boathouse

Lydia didn’t like the secret passageway. She didn’t like the fact it existed, she didn’t like the fact someone had been using it to sneak into the study and murder people, and she didn’t like the fact she was currently in it with a single kerosene lantern and a revolver. She didn’t like that it was freezing cold and she was still in her party dress, or that the tunnel twisted and turned under the house, looping back on itself several times and ended in a ladder.

“I’ll go up first,” Stiles offered, handing her the lantern.

“You’ll do no such thing,” Lydia said, handing him the lantern and reaching for the ladder. “Whatever you told your father--”

“Yes, I’m a target, I know,” he said, sounding almost annoyed. “Maybe the murderer will listen to reason if I explain I’m not actually anywhere near an option.”

They stared at each other in the gloom of the tunnel, and then glanced back at the ladder.

“We’ll both fit on that,” Lydia pointed out.

They crept up it together. At the top, Stiles pushed up the trap door, at which point they found themselves in the boathouse. Lydia looked around to see if there was anyone there and shivered in the late December night. The lake through the windows was mostly frozen, the banks blanketed in snow. There were no footprints in the drifts.

“So this is how the killer got into the house, I suppose,” Stiles said, shining the lantern around the room. When it fell on the corner, there was a groan and a clatter. They rushed forwards to discover Meredith holding a bleeding wound in her side.

“Meredith!” Lydia exclaimed, helping her sit upright.

“Who did this?” Stiles asked, kneeling next to them.

“It was the man in the painting,” Meredith said, her eyes darting around, focusing on nothing and everything at once.

“What man in the painting?” Lydia asked, helping her put pressure on the wound.

“The man in the painting in the study,” Meredith said.

“We have to get her back to the house,” Stiles said.

“We shouldn’t take the tunnels,” Lydia replied, helping Meredith to her feet. Stiles pulled off his jacket and wrapped it around her. Lydia figured neither she nor Stiles would freeze to death walking across the grounds to the house, but Meredith was already hurt.

“Which portrait in the study, Meredith?” Lydia asked gently, pulling one of Meredith’s arms across her shoulders. Stiles took the other.

“The one with the secret passage,” Meredith said. She yelped when they stepped outside into the snow. Lydia couldn’t help but agree with the assessment, but managed to keep quiet.

“But Meredith, the man in that painting has been dead for…” Stiles said, glancing over Meredith’s head at Lydia for some sort of answer.

“Twenty-two years,” Lydia supplied.

“Then he was a ghost,” Meredith said. With a little gasp, she collapsed on the snow-covered ground.

Stiles scooped her up and they kept walking, eager to be out of the cold.

“Was he the one who gave you the note to give to Jackson?” Lydia asked.

Meredith nodded and curled closer to Stiles. “He said he wasn’t going to stop until they were all dead.”

“They are all dead,” Stiles whispered.

“Scott and Isaac aren’t,” Lydia whispered back, her teeth chattering in the cold.

“So we have to find a ghost and keep them alive,” Stiles summarised. “That shouldn’t be too difficult.”

Lydia glanced up at him reproachfully and he had the grace to look ashamed of himself.

“Or it’ll be very, very difficult and we should get the doctor immediately,” Stiles corrected while Lydia knocked on the back door. They heard frantic and worried whispers on the other side of the door and then it opened a crack to reveal Finstock.

“She’s been hurt,” Lydia said before Finstock could close the door. His eyes widened and he ushered the three of them into the hall.

“Put her in my office,” Finstock instructed, leading them down the hallway after he re-locked the door.

“No, put her in mine,” the head of house said, appearing from the kitchen. “I was a nurse before Scott was born.”

Lydia didn’t argue with her mother’s head of household and neither did Stiles. Meredith had broken out in a sweat and her blood was soaking through her dress and Stiles’ borrowed coat. They put her on the sofa in Mrs McCall’s sitting room and she shooed them off to find the inspector.

“Is she going to be okay?” Lydia asked.

Mrs McCall looked up at her from where she was kneeling next to Meredith and pressing a cloth to her forehead. Lydia could see from her eyes that the answer was no.

“Go find the inspector,” Mrs McCall said. “He was in the ballroom helping the earl remove the guests.”

Lydia and Stiles dithered in the doorway until Finstock pulled them both away.

“Go find them, let them know what’s happened,” Finstock said. “Mrs McCall and I will keep an eye on Meredith.”

Lydia nodded and went with Stiles to the stairs. She realised as they walked that they were both bloody, but they were in a hurry, and she didn’t know where to find Stiles a new shirt.

Fortunately, when they reached the ballroom, everyone was gone except for her mother, Argent, and the inspector who were deep in conversation. At least, they were until Natalie caught sight of them.

“Lydia!” she exclaimed, looking horrified. “Why are you covered in blood?”

“It’s Meredith’s,” Lydia said, trying not to feel sick about the whole thing as her mother grabbed her arms and examined her for damage.

“Stiles, I sincerely hope the blood on you isn’t yours,” the inspector said.

“No,” Stiles said. “We found Meredith out in the boathouse. She said that the killer wasn’t going to stop until they were all dead.”

“Did you ask her who it was?” Argent demanded.

“She said it was your father,” Lydia said.

“My father,” Argent repeated blankly. “My father who has been dead for twenty-two years.”

“She had already lost a lot of blood,” Lydia said. “But have all the guests gone?”

“Yes, we’ve sent them away,” Argent agreed. “The inspector and I are going to search the house thoroughly. Lydia, find your sister and tell her to keep an eye on Isaac Lahey. He’s the last person we have to worry about. Then I want you to go to sleep, lock your door, and don’t open it unless I come for you.”

Lydia was perfectly alright with that plan of action, and didn’t correct him as far as Isaac being the only remaining target.

“What should I do?” Stiles asked.

“You’ve done far too much already,” the inspector said. “Lord Argent, is there somewhere he can sleep for the night? Preferably somewhere with a lock.”

“There’s a spare room on the second floor just down the hall from Lydia’s,” Natalie supplied. “We’ll find you some unbloodied clothes as well. And you two – be careful.”

Lydia glanced at the earl and the inspector and felt a lump in her throat. She would never forgive herself if something happened to either of them.

“But I could help you search,” Stiles insisted.

“No, please Stiles,” the inspector said. “Please just go to sleep. I should never have brought you with me.”

Lydia watched as Stiles shook his father’s hand firmly and then abandoned pretence and hugged him. Then Natalie was leading them both out of the room and up the stairs. They paused at Allison’s room on the first floor and Natalie knocked sharply.

There was a scrambling noise and then the door opened a crack to reveal Allison’s eye. When she saw who it was, she opened the door wider.

“Mr Parrish and Mr Tate are both dead and Meredith has been gravely injured,” Lydia said before her mother could say anything. “Father wants you to keep an eye on Isaac since he’s the last remaining target.”

Allison nodded and her eyes darted to Stiles very briefly. Then she noticed the blood on Lydia’s hands.

“Are you alright?” she demanded, seizing her hands and inspecting them for damage.

“I’m fine,” Lydia promised. “It’s Meredith’s. Mrs McCall doesn’t think…”

She didn’t need to finish the sentence because Allison understood.

“Mr Lahey, I’m so sorry to put you out like this, but it wouldn’t be too uncomfortable for you to sleep on the davenport in Allison’s dressing room, would it?” Natalie asked, giving him a sympathetic look. “It’s only, there are two locks between there and the rest of the house and we’ll get you out of here first thing in the morning.”

“It’s perfectly fine,” Isaac said and Lydia noticed he’d removed his jacket and cuffed his sleeves and had generally become quite casual and comfortable. Lydia tried not to think about the fact Allison’s hair was down and Scott was presumably hiding in the dressing room at that moment.

“We’ll keep the doors locked until morning or someone comes for us,” Allison said. “But Mr Tate doesn’t…”

“Peter Hale admitted to that one,” Stiles said. “Malia’s his daughter and he – well, actually, we didn’t get the full story.”

Natalie stared at him for a second and then glanced at Lydia.

“How is it the two of you are so much better informed than I am?” she asked.

Lydia and Stiles shrugged together.

Natalie still looked concerned but hugged Allison tightly and kissed her on the cheek before she led Lydia and Stiles away. They heard the lock click on Allison’s door as they headed back for the stairs.

“Mother, you shouldn’t walk back to your room alone,” Lydia said. “It isn’t safe.”

“I can’t let you walk to yours alone, either,” Natalie said.

“We could go by your room first, Lady Argent, and then I can walk Lydia to hers and she can point out which room I’m to stay in,” Stiles offered.

Natalie glanced between them and Lydia saw the fear in her eyes. Suddenly, she felt awful for her mother. She’d been kept completely in the dark until the eleventh hour and now her husband was searching the house with very little help.

“Mother, I’ll be fine,” Lydia said. “I promise. And neither of us have come to harm yet.”

She pushed open the door to her mother’s room and held her hand until she sat in her arm chair.

“And you should try to get some sleep,” Lydia suggested, hugging her tightly and kissing her on the cheek.

“I’m afraid that’s going to be impossible, dear,” Natalie said, cupping her face briefly. “I’m so sorry about Jackson.”

“Thank you,” Lydia said. It wasn’t the time to point out that while she was sad about Jackson’s death, she was perfectly fine that she wasn’t going to be marrying him.

“Lock the door behind us,” Stiles said, ducking his head quickly in deference and then following Lydia into the hall. They heard the lock click behind them.

“We actually ought to sleep,” Lydia said quietly. “And let our fathers search.”

“Yes, I suppose you’re right,” Stiles agreed. “Do you mind if I borrow Jackson’s clothes again?”

“No, that’s fine,” Lydia said, leading the way up the stairs and to Jackson’s room. She helped Stiles find a new shirt and pair of trousers and showed him to the spare room. “Be sure you lock the door.”

“Of course,” Stiles said. “Do you suppose Scott was still in Allison’s dressing room?”

“Yes, I do,” Lydia agreed. “Your father isn’t going to tell ours about Scott being a target, is he?”

“No, I shouldn’t think he would, since he’s romancing Mrs McCall,” Stiles replied.

“Naturally,” Lydia said. She had no further reason to be standing at his door, but couldn’t seem to make herself leave. “Sleep well.”

“You too,” Stiles said, his eyes falling from hers to her mouth and then back to her eyes. As awfully inappropriate as it was, her heart fluttered.

“Good night,” she said. She wasn’t going to trip into the same pitfalls as Allison and take to having a secret common lover.

“Good night,” Stiles echoed.

She nodded once, mostly to stop herself from saying anything else and turned to leave. She had barely moved when he caught her wrist and spun her back around. She found herself pressed against him, their foreheads touching. She almost gave in to her desires, almost kissed him, but at the last second she caught sight of the blood on his shirt.

“I can’t,” she murmured. “I can’t be responsible for getting you killed as well.”

“You wouldn’t be responsible,” he said, his hand trailing up her arm.

“I can’t,” she repeated. She kissed him on the cheek and  walked briskly down the hall to her room, pausing in the doorway to make sure he closed his door and locked it. She locked her own door and used the basin in her room to wash the makeup off her face and Meredith’s blood off her hands.

It was ridiculous. As soon as the killer was caught and as soon as her instituted period of mourning was over, her parents were going to find her another fiancé. She couldn’t afford to develop an attachment to a detective inspector’s son. Especially not when anyone close to her was doomed to death by wire.

Her mind was ill at ease as she braided her hair and crawled into bed. For a single moment, she considered turning the lights off. Instead, she pulled her pillow over her head and tried to rid herself of the images of Jackson, Mr Lahey, Mr Tate, Mr Parrish, and Meredith that insisted on running through her mind’s eye.


	8. The Murderer

_But she didn’t love Jackson_ , his traitorous brain said.

“That doesn’t change the fact he just died this afternoon,” he reasoned.

_Exactly. He’s dead. He can’t stop anything from happening._

“And it doesn’t change the fact everyone who’s been close to marrying either of them is walking around with a death sentence if they aren’t already actually dead.”

_So you wait until_ after _your father catches him, and then you_ -

“Then I what? Ask the daughter of an earl to marry me?”

_You aren’t actually a commoner, as you’re so fond of forgetting._

Stiles ground the heels of his hands into his eyes to try and stop his brain from speaking to him. He’d read the psychoanalysis books in school and he knew that people formed stronger attachments if they were in highly stressful or frightening situations when they first met. But that knowledge wasn’t going to erase the terrified look in Lydia’s eyes when she told him she couldn’t kiss him because she couldn’t be responsible for his death. But at least she hadn’t said it was because she didn’t want to kiss him.

He acknowledged the fact it was a dangerous train of thought to take, and tried to go to sleep. It had almost worked when an odd shuffling sound came from the door. He forced himself into a sitting position and turned on the light next to his bed. A single square of paper had been slipped under the door.

His blood ran cold and he picked up the nearest blunt object – an antique candlestick – and wrenched open his door. He could only hope for the element of surprise. But there was no one there.

He looked up and down the hallway, but it was completely deserted. He shut the door and locked it again before he replaced the candlestick and picked up the note.

It was addressed to Stiles, which he figured wasn’t surprising for the murderer. The man had been eavesdropping on everything for the entire night. He unfolded it, and predictably it asked him to go to the study so Lydia could apologise for turning him down earlier. He had half a mind to crawl back into bed – the beds at Beacon Hills seemed to be unusually comfortable – but then he realised the killer was waiting for him in the study.

He groaned and started searching the room for a better weapon. His father had insisted on having the gun back when he sent the two of them off to bed. After extensive digging through the wardrobes in the room, he discovered a disused cricket bat in the back corner and picked it up, pocketing the note.

He stepped out of the room and felt something cold brush his wrist. He glanced down and realised he was still wearing Jackson Whittemore’s jade cufflinks which Lydia had got him for his birthday. He undid them and slipped them into his pocket before rolling up his sleeves.

Stiles only made it a step past Lydia’s room before he stopped and knocked on her door.

“Who is it?” she called, sounding very much awake.

“It’s me,” he said, then mentally smacked himself. “Stiles. It’s Stiles.”

The door opened and she stared up at him, her lovely green eyes much sadder than they had been an hour before when they’d said good night. He had been impulsive and stupid to pull her close earlier. Just like he’d been impulsive and stupid when he held her after they went to search Mr Lahey’s body, and after they found Mr Parrish. But he’d be damned if he couldn’t at least admit to himself that she was the most intelligent and beautiful girl he’d ever met or had the privilege of speaking to.

“Has something happened?” she asked, glancing past him into the hall and looking quickly in either direction before she pulled him inside and closed and locked the door. Stiles stayed directly against the door and did his best not to look too hard at Lydia’s room, or the fact she was wearing just a nightgown, her long strawberry hair falling over her shoulder in a braid.

“This came under my door,” he said, snapping out of his reverie and handing her the note.

She scanned it quickly and sank to the edge of her bed. “I’m so sorry,” she said, looking down at her hands. She quickly brushed one of her fingers under her eye, and he realised she was crying.

He sat down next to her and tentatively put his hand on hers. “I’ll be fine.”

“But this one actually _is_ my fault,” she said, crumpling the note and throwing it away in distaste. “Because I kissed you, and if I hadn’t you wouldn’t be a target.”

Stiles wanted to protest that he didn’t particularly mind the fact she’d kissed him, even if it did technically doom him. But it was not the right moment.

“But if I wasn’t a target and we hadn’t found the secret passage, we wouldn’t know that the killer happens to be waiting for me behind the portrait in the study,” Stiles said. “And I doubt he knows that we know about the passage. I could easily sneak--”

She glared at him so fiercely and squeezed his hand so tightly he thought he might lose the use of his fingers.

“Or we,” he said and her grip relaxed. “We could sneak through the servants’ stairs or the conservatory and maybe catch him unawares.”

“He must have seen us through the portrait when we went after Scott got his note,” Lydia said. “So if we went around from the conservatory or the stairs, he wouldn’t be able to see us.”

“Exactly,” Stiles said.

“Or we could hope our fathers find him and stay here,” Lydia suggested.

Stiles hadn’t expected that sort of suggestion from her _ever_ and especially not when they had a perfect opportunity to catch the killer. But then she stood up and pulled on her dressing gown and a pair of soft soled house shoes.

“You’ll need something better than a cricket bat,” she said. “And quieter shoes. The tunnel echoes.”

He watched as she disappeared into her dressing room and followed with curiosity. She reached for a shelf but was too short to grasp the box she was aiming for. Stiles grabbed it and handed it down.

“Thank you,” she said, opening the box to reveal a set of ornamental, but quite sharp, silver knives. She slipped one into the pocket of her dressing gown and handed him another. “They were part of my dowry. Which, frankly, I doubt I’ll ever use after tonight. But you still need better shoes.”

“And I’m still bringing the cricket bat,” Stiles said as they headed for Jackson’s room. Stiles discovered that his feet were substantially larger than Jackson’s, but not to the extent Jackson’s house shoes were unbearable. “Which entrance to the tunnels is closer to the study do you suppose?”

“The conservatory,” Lydia said, leading the way to the east wing’s back staircase. They found the ground floor deserted, since presumably the staff were asleep, Allison, Isaac, and Scott were locked in Allison’s room, Peter Hale and Kate Argent were locked up somewhere, and the earl and inspector were searching somewhere else.

The conservatory was just as dark as it had been earlier and it only took seconds for it to become unsettling.

“We haven’t got a light,” Stiles said.

“There’s only two turns, one to the boathouse, one to the stairs to the study,” Lydia reminded him. “And if we have a light, then he’ll see us.”

Stiles nodded and started looking for the release on the wall panel.

“You don’t suppose it really is your father’s long presumed dead father, do you?” Stiles asked.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Lydia replied.

Stiles grinned briefly, mostly to stifle the horrible pounding that had spread from his heart to his stomach, and clicked the button. The wave of musty air that washed over them when the wall swung forward made both of them recoil. Stiles tightened his grip on his cricket bat and steeled the remainder of his courage before he took the first step into the passage. It was colder now than it had been earlier and he felt Lydia shiver.

They tiptoed as quietly as they could through the pitch black tunnel. Stiles kept one hand on the right side wall to make sure they didn’t miss the stairs and gripped the cricket bat tightly in his other. Lydia was holding onto his guiding arm almost as tightly as he held the bat.

Then his fingers trailed into open space. He froze and tried to listen past his own shallow breathing for any sounds of people. There were none.

His legs shook as he took the first step up towards the study.

“Looking for me?”

Stiles whirled and swung the bat in the same motion while Lydia screamed. A lantern flared to life and he suddenly saw an old man with an evil smile standing in the path to the boathouse. The side of his face was scarred and he bore the marks of a wire across his throat. And he was holding Lydia with a knife pressed to her neck.

Stiles thought he might be sick right then.

“Just – just let her go,” he requested.

The old man looked between them – from Stiles’ horrified eyes to Lydia’s panicked shallow breaths.

“Well I really picked the wrong fiancé to get to you, Lydia,” he growled.

“He’s not my fiancé,” Lydia said, trying to keep her eyes on the knife. Stiles saw a bead of blood appear at the tip of the blade. “He’s just the inspector’s son. He’s not anything really.”

Stiles tried to edge closer, figuring if he could get the right angle, he might be able to club the old man in the head and knock him out.

“Ah ah, Mr Stilinski,” the old man said. “Take another step and I’ll kill you both now.”

Stiles stopped moving while more blood ran onto the knife from Lydia’s neck.

“And Lydia, if being an inspector’s son disqualified him from your affections, do you really think I would be looking for Scott McCall?” the old man asked. “Start walking.”

Stiles did as he commanded and started to walk down the path to the boathouse. He could hear the old man dragging Lydia behind him. Of course, in his panic, his mind went completely blank. All he had left was a sense of horrible dread.

“Why are you doing this?” Lydia asked. The broken tone in her voice hurt far worse than Stiles could have imagined.

“None of you deserve the name Argent,” the old man growled. “Not my horrid son, not your sister, not you, and not my bitch of a daughter.”

“So you’re going to disgrace them, make them unfit to be married, ruin them all by society’s standards, because…” Stiles prompted, earning himself a clout to the back of the head with the lantern.

“Because this was my family and they’ve ruined it,” the old man said. “And it should’ve died with me.”

He prodded Stiles up the stairs to the boathouse and set the lantern down.

“And you two have been getting in the way of my plans all night,” he said. “Drop the bat.”

Stiles dropped the bat and started looking around for some other weapon. The only things available seemed to be oars.

“So I’ll be leaving you both here until I’ve taken care of everything else – Scott McCall, Isaac Lahey, Kate, Peter Hale, maybe even Christopher and the inspector,” the old man listed. “And the two of you can rest safe in the knowledge everyone you’ve been trying so diligently to protect all night is dead.”

Stiles swallowed and hoped to God the man would take the knife away from Lydia’s throat. The next thing he knew, the old man had let go of Lydia, grabbed the cricket bat, and bashed him in the head. He distantly registered Lydia screaming as everything faded to black and he fell to the floor.

 


	9. Of Cricket Bats and Bottled Wine

Lydia was forced to stop screaming when Gerard put his knife back to her throat.

“Either be quiet or I’ll kill him now,” Gerard said. Lydia closed her mouth and looked back down at Stiles, unconscious on the floor of the boathouse.

“We thought you were dead,” she said, following his instruction to sit on the floor. Gerard pulled a length of rope from one of the boats and bound her wrists together. Once she was secure, he moved on to Stiles.

“Of course you would think that after my daughter tried to kill me,” Gerard growled, a demonic glint in his eyes as he bound Stiles’ ankles and then Lydia’s.

“Why would Kate try to kill you?” Lydia asked, glancing at the blood on the side of Stiles’ head.

Gerard didn’t answer immediately and instead padlocked the door to the boathouse.

“She wanted to marry that Hale bastard,” Gerard said. “I couldn’t let my daughter marry a disinherited man – much less a Hale - and so they tried to kill me.”

Lydia observed the scars on the side of the old man’s face and the mostly healed gash on his throat. He was clearly bent on using the same method to kill people that Kate and Peter had attempted to use on him.

“Wouldn’t talking about it be a better way to deal with it?” she asked, her voice failing her halfway through.

Gerard gave her a disapproving look and opened the trapdoor. “Goodbye, Lydia. I’ll be back for you both later, assuming you don’t freeze to death first.”

He slammed the trapdoor shut and Lydia heard a bolt slide shut.

As soon as he was gone, she tried to twist around and get the knife out of her dressing gown pocket, but couldn’t reach it at the bad angle. She shivered and tried to push away the horrible thoughts of freezing to death as her breath came out in pearly clouds.

“Stiles,” she said, trying to manoeuver herself closer to him. He twitched. “Stiles!”

He opened his eyes briefly and then shut them again.

“Stiles!” she shouted.

“My head,” he mumbled, trying to reach up to put his hand to the injury. It didn’t work with the binding. Lydia almost cried in relief that he’d woken up.

“He’s gone,” she said. “But I can’t reach the knife in my pocket.”

Stiles blinked, trying to shake the haze of a head wound. He pushed himself up to sitting and inched closer to her. His hands slid into her pocket and grasped the knife. The heat from his hands radiated through her dressing gown and her nightdress and fully illuminated just how cold it was. She shivered again and then held her bound hands over the knife so he could cut through the rope. She was free in seconds and untied his hands quickly.

“He locked the door, didn’t he?” Stiles asked while they worked on untying their ankles.

“Of course he did,” she said, her teeth chattering. Stiles’ lips were turning blue.

As soon as they were free, she pulled him to his feet and they started looking for anything that would let them out of one of the doors.

“All the doors at the house are going to be locked, aren’t they?” Stiles asked, rubbing his hands over his arms.

“Yes,” Lydia agreed.

“So we’ve got to get into the tunnels,” he said, shuddering. Without thinking about it, Lydia pressed against him, wrapping her arms around his waist. He stopped shuddering and put his arms around her shoulders.

“We’ve got to get into the tunnels before we freeze to death,” she said. “And before he finds the rest of the people he’s trying to kill.”

Stiles nodded in agreement but neither of them made any move to figure out a way to open the trapdoor.

“He doesn’t know that you’re not his actual granddaughter, does he,” Stiles said. She was used to him stating things that ought to be questions by that point. She had done it to him often enough too.

“Apparently it was Aunt Kate and Peter Hale who tried to kill him twenty-two years ago,” Lydia replied. “Which was before Allison’s mother and father were married, even.”

“Maybe if we explained that to him, he’d leave you alone,” Stiles said.

“I doubt it,” she said. “He says we’ve been getting in the way of his plans all night, remember? As far as we’re concerned, it’s personal.”

Stiles nodded and let go of her so he could crouch down and examine the trapdoor.

“The hinges aren’t cold enough to shatter,” he said. He tapped one of them with the handle of the knife and a flake of something Lydia assumed was rust fell off. It was hard to see clearly as their only light was the moon. She looked around the boathouse for something – anything – that they could use to escape and then noticed a collection of more cricket bats in the corner. She rushed over and picked through them, trying to ignore the oily film on her fingertips. Then she paused. The bats had been freshly oiled. She pushed them aside and discovered a bottle of linseed oil. Quickly, she searched through the boats for a stack of rags.

“What are you doing?” Stiles asked.

Lydia ignored him and checked to see if the trapdoor was bordered by metal. She felt the frigid iron with her fingertips and then unscrewed the linseed oil, pouring it over the rags and letting it soak in. She left them in the centre of the trapdoor and poured the rest of the oil on the door liberally, upending the last of the bottle onto the rags.

“Lydia?” Stiles asked curiously as she tucked herself back into his side.

“They use linseed oil to polish cricket bats,” she explained.

“Okay…” Stiles said. “They made me do that at school once after I stole a prefect’s shorts and mailed them to the matron, but--”

An acrid smell started wafting from the pile of rags and a tendril of smoke rose from the door.

“Linseed oil spontaneously combusts,” Lydia said, pulling him away from the trapdoor as the pile of rags burst into flame.

“You’re absolutely brilliant,” Stiles said. They took a step back towards the fire and held their frigid hands out to try and shake off some of the internal frost.

Because of the amount of oil Lydia had put on the door, it caught quickly and turned into a proper bonfire night style event.

“At least it’s warm now,” Stiles said, although neither of them made to separate. “Is your neck alright?”

“It’s fine,” Lydia said, touching the cut on her neck. She’d forgotten it was there. “How’s your head?”

“It hurts but it’s fine,” he said. “Maybe we ought to have told our fathers where we were going.”

“I think Gerard was expecting us exactly the way we showed up,” Lydia said. “I think he knew we’d both be there and that we’d be in the tunnels.”

“Yes, I think you’re right,” Stiles agreed. “He’s been spying on everything all night. Probably longer. And on the bright side, this shows he would’ve targeted me even if he hadn’t been lurking behind the painting when you kissed me.”

“That isn’t a bright side, Stiles,” she pointed out.

“Sure it is,” he said, smiling down at her quickly. “It means it isn’t your fault.”

She wasn’t completely aware of standing on her toes or throwing her arms around his neck or kissing him, but she did notice vividly when he wrapped one arm around her waist and buried his other hand in her hair. She’d read the psychoanalysis books in the library, even Freud’s that her father definitively disapproved of, and she knew that meeting someone for the first time under highly stressful or horrifying circumstances tended to forge connections faster and stronger than happened under normal circumstances. But she didn’t particularly care at that moment. At that moment, she cared much more about the fact Stiles’ lips were soft and the hand on her back was warm and she could feel his heart racing.

They were interrupted by a crashing sound when one of the weakened and charred planks in the trapdoor fell into the tunnel below. Stiles let go of her reluctantly and used his cricket bat to prod at the remaining planks. She grabbed an oar and joined in. It didn’t take too long to bash in the rest of the charred door and some of the still burning pieces served to illuminate the bottom of the ladder.

“So we get through as quickly as we can, go straight up through the study since its closest, and then do our best to find our fathers,” Stiles said.

“Right,” Lydia agreed. They glanced down into the tunnel and back at each other. Stiles kissed her again very quickly and then took her hand and led the way down the ladder. She kept holding her oar and gripped it even tighter as they left the light from the burning trapdoor. She could’ve sworn she heard their panicked heartbeats pounding in the pitch black of the tunnels, but brushed it off as her imagination. They walked quickly and silently, trying to be as inconspicuous as possible in case Gerard was in the tunnels again. When her toe hit the bottom of the stairs to the study, she almost shouted in relief. She managed to keep it in, though, and they ran up the stairs together.

Stiles pushed open the portrait and pulled her into the study. It was completely empty.

“Where do you suppose they’re looking?” Stiles asked.

“There are two wings and then the central section of the house, three main storeys, the servants’ quarters in the attic, and the kitchen and servants’ hall in the basement,” Lydia listed. “But Gerard said Peter Hale and Aunt Kate were targets. He’ll know where they’re locked up, I’m sure of it.”

“Did you hear where they were?” Stiles asked.

Lydia considered and realised she didn’t know. She was confident her father wouldn’t have let them be locked up somewhere public that anyone might stumble across them.

“There isn’t a dungeon, is there?” he asked.

“No,” Lydia said.

“Or any sort of detention cell?” Stiles asked.

“Is there a detention cell in _your_ house?” she asked.

He looked away evasively.

“Stiles,” she said.

“My father’s a detective inspector,” he said. “And our house keeper has a special skill for accidentally allowing criminals into the house.”

Lydia pursed her lips and tried to think of where her father would lock up his own sister for suspicion of murder. He wouldn’t want her to be comfortable. He would want her to suffer at least a little, but wouldn’t want to freeze her to death. But it would have to be somewhere secure with little hope of exit.

“The wine cellar,” she said, pulling Stiles into the servants’ stairs. The basement was completely deserted, which she figured was only fair since it was after midnight. They ran past the open door to the root cellar and paused long enough to see Meredith next to the men. Whoever had placed her had shut her eyes and folded her hands and taken a moment to give her a small bouquet of red holly and white mistletoe. Five people were already dead, and who knew how many others Gerard had got to while they’d been locked in the boathouse.

They rushed to the wine cellar and Lydia felt her heart sink when the door was ajar. Stiles prodded it open with his bat and Lydia closed her eyes in dismay. Kate and Peter’s eyes were open still, and it looked like they’d put up a fight based on the broken bottles of wine on the ground around them. She was glad the inspector hadn’t handcuffed them, however, since it had given them an opportunity to defend themselves. Unfortunately, they hadn’t been successful.

“We have to find our fathers,” Stiles said, squeezing her hand and jarring her out of her sympathies for an aunt she’d never liked and a neighbour who made her uncomfortable and had murdered their gardener.

“Yes,” Lydia agreed. They turned to leave, only to find themselves face to face with Gerard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Linseed oil is actually used to smooth out cricket bats. It is also highly combustible because of the speed at which it oxidises. One of the theories for why King Tut's mummy was burnt so badly when they discovered it was that when the people doing the mummification put on the linseed oil (or an analogous material) they didn't wait for it to dry before adding the linen wraps and therefore, they lit the body of a pharaoh on fire by accident.


	10. Gerard, in the Cellar, with the Piano Wire

“I expect the detective’s son to turn up like a bad penny, but you, Lydia--”

That was as far as he got before Stiles swung his cricket bat. It caught the old man in the side of the head, but instead of pitching him over sideways like it should have, it just knocked his head into Lydia’s oar.

Gerard crumpled to the ground, the wire falling from his hand. Stiles glanced at Lydia. Her eyes were wide and she was breathing rapidly again. He knew he wasn’t much better.

“We need something to tie him up with,” Stiles said, wiping his palms on his trousers.

Lydia nodded and fumbled with the tie on her dressing gown. Her fingers were shaking too badly to undo the knot.

Stiles took her hands and they stilled. He untied the belt and they rolled Gerard over so they could tie his hands behind his back and make his life much more difficult than he’d made theirs.

“We have to search him for weapons,” Lydia said.

Stiles nodded and frisked him, coming back with a blood-stained dagger that he decided was almost certainly the knife he’d used to kill Meredith. He cast the knife away and looked for something additional to tie the old man up with, eventually alighting upon the wire. While Lydia watched curiously, he bound the piano string tightly around Gerard’s wrists with just enough pressure that it started biting into his skin.

Together, they grabbed him under the arms and dragged him towards the stairs.

“You haven’t got a dumbwaiter, have you?” Stiles asked as they started tugging him up the spiral staircase.

“He wouldn’t fit unless we hacked him into bits,” Lydia replied, pausing to catch her breath. Stiles glanced down at Gerard, and he must have looked like he was considering it, because Lydia gave him a disapproving look. “We’re not hacking him into bits.”

“Well, I don’t know about you, but I’ll be attending his execution,” Stiles said, returning to the task of dragging the surprisingly heavy former earl up the stone stairs. He comforted himself that Gerard’s back would certainly be bruised from the process.

“I don’t think I’ll give him the satisfaction,” Lydia replied. “He’d probably want the whole family there so he could denounce us publically.”

Stiles could definitely see Gerard doing that.

Together, they manhandled the old man into the entrance hall. Stiles watched the unconscious body while Lydia ran into the study and came back with a chair. They set him in it and then considered the problem of securing him.

“We need more rope, or something,” Stiles said. Lydia nodded in agreement and they scanned the room. He was the first to go for the curtain ties while Lydia went for the thin wires holding up the garlands on the banister. Stiles used the curtain ties to bind his ankles, and then they analysed the next move.

“You know…” Stiles said, untying Gerard’s wrists.

“What are you doing?” Lydia demanded.

“Trust me,” Stiles said. “And grab the oar.”

Lydia picked up the discarded paddle and frowned at him. Stiles grabbed Gerard’s elbows and pulled them behind the chair. Lydia caught on and slipped the oar through the gap between Gerard’s arms and the back of the chair. Stiles quickly secured Gerard’s wrists to the arms of the chair, using the wires from the garlands – which were now sagging – and the piano wire. He used Lydia’s dressing gown tie to gag him.

“It won’t necessarily be more secure,” Stiles said.

“But it’ll be quite uncomfortable I should imagine,” Lydia said. Stiles agreed and then ducked down to remove Gerard’s shoelaces. He used them to add extra binding to his wrists and then stepped back to admire his handiwork.

Lydia held his arm and hid her face in his sleeve. Stiles stroked her hair soothingly and kissed the top of her head.

“We have to find our fathers,” he said.

Lydia nodded but didn’t move.

“Hey, it’s over,” he said.

“We can’t leave him unsupervised to find them,” Lydia said. Stiles frowned, because he knew she was right. The man had managed to avoid death twenty-two years before and had gone on sneaking around the Beacon Hills estate for who knew how long since without being caught or even detected. It would be foolish to underestimate him.

“Then what should we--”

He didn’t get to finish his question because Lydia ran into the dining room and he heard a gong ring. The sound reverberated through the house for a second, and then she banged it again, then again, and a fourth time. She returned to the entrance hall and resumed her position holding his arm.

It didn’t take long for there to be running footsteps. The first person down the stairs was Melissa McCall, followed shortly by Mr Finstock.

“What’s happened to your head?” Mrs McCall asked, brushing Stiles’ hair aside to examine the bash from earlier. He’d mostly forgotten about it.

“I’m fine,” he said. “Have you seen my father?”

“Not recently,” Mrs McCall said. Sorrow crossed her face. “Meredith--”

“We saw,” Lydia said.

Before Mr Finstock or Mrs McCall could ask after the prisoner they’d captured, the inspector appeared near the banister. He ran down the stairs and inspected Stiles for damage very quickly before noticing the bloody bruise on his head and the cut on Lydia’s neck. Stiles was relieved that he was okay.

“I thought we told you two to go to bed,” the inspector said, finally taking note of the prisoner.

“We caught the murderer,” Stiles said.

The inspector stared at Gerard with worried and very tired eyes. Stiles had been noticing more and more how much his father’s job took out of him, especially cases like this in which seven people were murdered – assuming Lord Argent was still alive – and the killer was revealed to be someone long thought to be dead.

“How?” the inspector asked finally, looking away from Gerard and towards his son and Lydia instead.

“He sent me a note,” Stiles started before he realised how that would sound.

The inspector scrutinised his and Lydia’s body posture and general closeness for a second. “Yes, I can see that,” he said finally.

“He must have known we knew about the passageway because he was waiting for us,” Lydia said. “And he locked us in the boathouse.”

“How did you get out?” Mrs McCall asked. Stiles watched her glance at the inspector like she wanted to check him for damage as well.

“There was a flask of linseed oil in there and Lydia burnt the trapdoor to ashes,” Stiles explained. “We got back to the house and she figured out where Lady Kate and Peter Hale were locked up, but by the time we got there it was too late.”

“The killer snuck up behind us, but we managed to bash him in the head before he could get to us,” Lydia said.

“Which one of you actually hit him?” Finstock asked, inspecting the matted blood on the sides of Gerard’s head.

“Lydia used the oar,” Stiles said. “I had a cricket bat.”

“That wasn’t very ladylike of you,” Finstock said.

“Oh well,” Lydia said. “Inspector, have you seen my father?”

“He was searching the west wing,” the inspector replied. He looked down at Gerard. “So who is he, exactly?”

“My father,” Lord Argent said, appearing from the stairs. Stiles felt some of the tension leave Lydia’s shoulders when it was apparent he was unharmed.

“I thought your father died years ago,” Finstock said.

“So did I,” Argent replied.

“He said that Lady Kate and Peter Hale tried to kill him,” Stiles said. “Because he wouldn’t let them marry.”

“That does sound like something Gerard would do,” Argent agreed. “And frankly, it sounds like something Kate and that Hale man would do. I suppose we ought to interrogate them as well, Inspector?”

“There’s no use,” the inspector replied, resting his hand on Stiles’ shoulder. It was something he’d done most often just after Stiles’ mother died. Stiles had decided it was something his father did to remind himself his only child was still alive and safe.

“Why? Are they not talking?” Argent asked.

“I shouldn’t think so,” Lydia mumbled. “Gerard killed them.”

Argent drew a deep breath through his nose and slowly exhaled through his mouth.

“Inspector, might I borrow your gun?” Argent asked.

“No,” the inspector said.

“He’s already legally dead,” Argent reasoned. “And he’s killed my sister, my neighbour, my maid, my daughter’s fiancé, one of my daughter’s suitors, and my other daughter’s father-in-law to be.”

Given the murderous gleam in his eye, Stiles was glad Argent hadn’t seemed to notice the fact Lydia was still clinging to him.

“And he’ll be prosecuted to the full extent of the law,” the inspector promised. “And I imagine the conviction won’t take very long.”

“He’s been trying to ruin my family,” Argent said.

“And killing your own father in the entrance hall is a sure way to bathe the family in scandal for generations,” the inspector said. “Now. If I might borrow your telephone, I’ll call the constable and have them come immediately to take him away.”

Argent closed his eyes like he was asking for patience.

“No,” he said finally. “I’ll bring him myself in the morning. May I at least borrow your handcuffs, Inspector?”

The inspector nodded and handed them over.

“And Mr Finstock, if I could get your assistance,” Argent said, grabbing one side of the chair. Gerard’s head lolled backwards.

Finstock rushed forwards and helped carry him towards the stairs.

“We’ll put him in the attic,” Argent said. “Mrs McCall, please help the good inspector find a room for the night. It’s obscenely cold and far too late to head back to the city.”

“Thank you,” the inspector said. “As long as it’s no trouble.”

“Of course not,” Argent said as he and Finstock started carrying Gerard up the first few stairs. “You and your son will be honoured guests in this house as long as my family holds it.”

“At least let me help put him away,” the inspector said, catching up to Argent and Finstock and grabbing the chair as well.

The three men and chair disappeared through a door that Stiles assumed led to the attic stairs. As soon as it was sealed, Mrs McCall stared imploringly at both of them.

“Where’s Scott?” she asked.

“Allison’s dressing room,” Lydia said. “We should tell them that we’ve caught him.”

Stiles agreed, and the three of them headed up the stairs. Lydia knocked on Allison’s bedroom door. When there was no response, Stiles’ blood turned cold again.

“Allison!” Lydia shouted, pounding on the door.

There was another moment of silence and then a scraping sound. The lock clicked, and the door opened very cautiously. Allison peered at the three of them through the crack in the door.

“Oh thank God,” Lydia said, letting go of Stiles in order to hug her sister tightly.

“We’re fine,” Allison said. “We’re all fine.”

“Is Scott in there?” Mrs McCall asked, sounding anxious.

“I’m right here,” Scott said, appearing behind Allison.

Mrs McCall grabbed him in the same sort of embrace Lydia was using to hold Allison. Stiles glanced at Isaac over the girls’ heads. Isaac shrugged.

“Did anyone else get hurt?” Allison asked.

“Peter Hale and Aunt Kate are both dead,” Lydia said. Allison’s jaw dropped. “And Stiles got hit in the head.”

“I’m fine,” Stiles said.

“But we caught him,” Lydia said. “It was Father’s father.”

“But he’s dead,” Allison said.

“He will be if Lord Argent has anything to do with it,” Stiles muttered.

Mrs McCall gave him a disapproving look and let go of Scott.

“It has been an atrocious night,” she said. “We should all go to bed. Mr Lahey, should we find you a room?”

“If it’s all the same to you, Mrs McCall, I’d rather stay where I’ve been,” Isaac said. Stiles noticed that all three of the room’s occupants looked distinctly rumpled by sleep.

“That’s fine,” Mrs McCall said. “Come along, Scott.”

“I have to help them put the dresser back in front of the door,” Scott said, grimacing apologetically at his mother.

Mrs McCall shook her head briefly and then patted his cheek.

“And Mr Stilinski, is the room from before still adequate?” she asked.

“Yes,” Stiles said, although he knew without a doubt he wouldn’t get a single second of sleep if he tried to go to bed.

“Good,” Mrs McCall said. “I suppose I should go find your father then.”

Stiles nodded and Mrs McCall kissed Scott on the cheek before she turned and headed for the stairs.

“You two ought to get some sleep,” Allison said, letting go of Lydia. “You caught a murderer, after all.”

Lydia agreed and Stiles could see how tired she was, regardless of how much she was trying to hide it. Allison kissed her on the cheek and then turned to Stiles.

“Thank you,” she said.

“I’d say ‘any time’ but I sincerely hope nothing like this ever happens again,” Stiles said. Both Scott and Isaac snorted and Allison cracked a smile.

“Good night,” she said, shutting the door gently. Stiles heard the lock click and then the scrape of the dresser being returned. He and Lydia walked in silence up to the second storey, which was when he first noticed he was still holding the cricket bat.

“Thank you,” Lydia said.

“You did just as much as I did,” he pointed out. “Probably more. If it weren’t for you, I imagine I’d be freezing to death in the boathouse still.”

Lydia smiled quickly at him and then stopped outside her bedroom door. Stiles wasn’t willing to admit he’d have atrocious nightmares the minute he closed the door to his room.

Instead of separating, they stood in front of Lydia’s door for several minutes before Lydia said, “Help me move the dresser in front of my door?”

 


	11. Keep All Your Secrets

The dresser wasn’t that hard to move, but once it was in place, they both started moving other furniture forwards, including Lydia’s bookcase and vanity.

“I don’t think anyone’s getting in,” Stiles said finally as she started dragging the lounge from her dressing room towards the door.

She let go of it and then sat on it where it was halfway through the door. Stiles leaned against their barricade and she appreciated for the first time that he really was quite good looking, even with the side of his head bloody.

“Sit,” she instructed, standing up and emptying her basin into a potted fern. Stiles looked confused but sat on the lounge all the same.

She refilled the basin from the ewer and picked through her vanity for a soft cloth. He watched her apprehensively as she dipped the cloth in the clean water and gently touched it to the side of his head. He winced but didn’t protest and she took care to wash away all the dirt and blood.

“It just barely broke the skin,” she said. “But head wounds--”

“Bleed a lot,” he said with her.

“One of my schoolmates clocked me in the forehead with a croquet mallet once,” he said. His brow furrowed. “Funny, I can’t remember who it was.”

She realised as he spoke that she had no actual idea how old he was.

“When did you finish school?” she asked.

“’06,” he said. 1906 was two years prior, when she had been sixteen.

“And you haven’t gone to university?” she asked. That she inferred by the fact he appeared to still live with his father.

“I attend university in Leeds, but I’ll be done in the summer,” he said. “It was close to my father and you should’ve seen how furious my schoolmasters were when I went to a brand new university.”

“Where did they want you to go?” Lydia asked. She had only endured finishing school until Allison finished, and then demanded to be left alone. She couldn’t have cared less about her penmanship classes, not when she could be doing something useful like studying the scientific and mathematical advancements of the past century.

Stiles shrugged. “Cambridge,” he said. “Or Oxford, or St Andrew’s. They weren’t too picky, but they were disappointed.”

Lydia shook her head fondly and finished removing the blood from his hair. It was wonderfully pleasant to talk about something other than the fact her step-grandfather had murdered six people in one night and planned to kill both her and Stiles as well. But then his head was fixed and she couldn’t excuse the fact her fingers were lingering on his face.

“You should try to get some sleep,” he said.

“What about you?” she asked.

“I’m relatively sure I won’t sleep for months, if ever again,” he replied, sinking down on the lounge. Lydia watched him for a moment and then squeezed into her dressing room to find a clean nightgown. She was aware of Stiles watching her and glanced over at him. He clapped his hand over his eyes the moment they made eye contact and she changed quickly before she turned down her comforter and crawled into bed.

The fact she could hear Stiles breathing was comforting, but as she started to fade out of consciousness, the images of the night ran through her head. Every time they did, she snapped back awake, fully alert. She let it go on for an hour before she thought she’d go mad.

“Stiles,” she said quietly.

“Yes?” he asked.

“Would you – would you mind…” She tried to figure out how to best phrase her question but came up blank. Finally, she settled for sitting up and pulling back the covers on the empty side of the bed. He blinked sleepily at her for a moment and then stood awkwardly next to the bed.

“I’m covered in dirt from the boathouse,” he said, scratching the back of his head. She was glad to see he wasn’t bleeding anymore though, and knew the wound must have clotted.

“I don’t care,” she said. “I can’t sleep.”

He nodded and pulled off his borrowed shoes before he burrowed under the covers next to her. She gave herself a moment to imagine how disapproving her father would be if he found out and then rested her head on Stiles’ chest. He wrapped his arms around her and softly stroked her hair.

“We’re going to be okay,” Stiles whispered. Lydia desperately wanted to believe him and fell asleep listening to his heartbeat.

 

She woke very suddenly in the morning when someone knocked on her door. She sat up and blinked in the bright grey morning light and noticed that Stiles hadn’t woken up, just grabbed her wrist when she’d moved.

“Who is it?” she called.

“It’s Allison,” Allison replied. “Malia left at dawn to go back to her mother’s house so I said I’d wake you up for breakfast.”

Lydia shook Stiles until he stirred. He sat up and yawned, his dark hair sticking up in every direction.

“Your bed is very comfortable,” he mumbled, blinking himself awake.

“It’s breakfast time,” Lydia said. “We’ve got to move the furniture.”

Stiles nodded and climbed out of bed. It turned out that while tired and poorly rested and no longer functioning on pure adrenaline, it was much harder to move Lydia’s vanity, bookcase, and dresser back to their appropriate places. When they finally managed it, Lydia opened the door to find Allison smiling at her.

“We survived,” she said. “At least some of us did. Good morning, Mr Stilinski.”

Lydia refused to blush at the question in Allison’s eyes.

“Please call me Stiles,” Stiles said, rubbing the pillow creases on his face.

“Sorry, Stiles,” Allison said. “Lydia, you might want to dress for breakfast.”

“You mean I can’t be seen in public in my nightgown?” Lydia asked, heading for her dressing room. Allison followed her.

“I’m going to go return to the clothes I arrived in,” Stiles said. “So my father and I can leave.”

“You’re both staying for breakfast,” Allison said. “Our parents want to formally thank you and your father.”

Stiles nodded, still looking too asleep to fully process anything, and headed back for Jackson’s room.

As soon as the door was closed, Allison’s eyes widened and she stared at Lydia imploringly.

“Honestly, nothing happened,” Lydia said, reaching for one of her morning dresses. Then she realised she would have to be in mourning for a while. She would be in mourning emotionally anyways, after seeing so much death in such a short period. She sighed and selected a mostly black dress that she’d never had occasion to wear. Allison looked sympathetic and helped her do up the buttons.

“Nothing happened except the two of you caught a murderer,” Allison pointed out. “All by yourselves.”

“Well, we didn’t catch him soon enough,” Lydia said, letting Allison pin up her hair.

“You still caught him,” Allison said.

Lydia nodded and opened her jewellery box. She reached for the pearls she’d been wearing the night before, then stopped. Instead, she pulled off Jackson’s engagement ring and left the room, Allison just behind her.

“How did you and Isaac and Scott get on last night?” Lydia asked.

“Fine,” Allison said. She sounded oddly evasive and when Lydia glanced up at her, she noticed the tips of Allison’s ears were pink.

“Allison?” she asked.

“Nothing,” Allison said. “We got along fine.”

Lydia couldn’t help but think it suspicious, but didn’t pry. She had had enough of secrets for the time being. Other people were more than welcome to keep their secrets to themselves.

The breakfast room was unusually sparse for Christmas Eve. For the past seventeen years that Chris and Natalie Argent had been married, there had always been a crowd of guests on Christmas Eve morning. This year, there were simply the four of them, and then Isaac, Stiles, and the detective inspector.

Lydia took the empty seat by Stiles and happily accepted the tea that the footman poured. She expected it to be Scott, but when she glanced up to thank him, she realised it was Danny, Jackson’s valet.

While she sipped her tea, she noticed her father and the inspector glaring at each other from either end of the table.

“I promise you, I had nothing to do with it,” Chris said. “It was an accident.”

“I appreciate that it looked like an accident,” the inspector said. “Especially since I was there when he was placed.”

For a heart-stopping moment, she thought Gerard had escaped. Stiles had apparently made the same leap, because he went pale and grabbed her hand under the table.

“I spent the entire night in bed with my wife,” Argent said. “Didn’t I, my love?”

“Yes, after you came to bed at one in the morning,” Natalie replied.

Lydia had to set her tea down because her hand shook so badly. She half expected Gerard to leap out from behind the sideboard and it was only Stiles tracing circles on the back of her hand with his thumb that kept her from screaming. From his shallow breaths, he seemed to be in the same situation.

“The fact remains that I got up this morning to send that man off with the constable only to discover he was dead,” the inspector said.

Lydia let out a sigh of relief and earned herself a reproachful look from her mother.

“No, Mother, I don’t care how impolite it is to be grateful someone’s dead,” Lydia said, picking up her tea again. Natalie pursed her lips but didn’t admonish her, which Lydia considered progress.

“But you’re sure he’s actually dead this time, right?” Stiles asked, staring at his father. “Because he’s done that before.”

“Yes, he’s actually dead,” the inspector said, and Stiles sighed in relief as well. “We put him at the top of the tower last night still tied to that chair, and apparently in his struggle to get free he managed to tip himself down the stairwell.”

“But when we bury him, we can put a stake through his heart, just to be sure, can’t we?” Lydia asked.

“Lydia!” Natalie scolded.

“It’s alright, my dear,” Argent said, taking Natalie’s hand. “We’re among family and highly honoured guests.”

Natalie’s training in being polite and proper seemed ill-content to let it alone, despite the circumstances, but she relaxed marginally.

“And perhaps we’ll fashion it out of silver,” Argent added, inclining his head in Lydia’s direction.

Lydia didn’t feel much like smiling, despite the relief that Gerard was actually, truly dead. She glanced down at her lap and at Stiles’ hand holding hers. She knew he’d noticed she wasn’t wearing Jackson’s engagement ring, but she also knew that they both knew her parents would be working on arranging a new fiancé for her as soon as her mandated period of mourning was over.

She reasoned with herself that the feelings would fade after a time. The bonds forged in times of duress might be strong but they had the tendency to be like treated steel – once they were plunged into the water, or the trials of everyday life as it were, they would either solidify, or they would snap.

As soon as breakfast was over, the family saw the Stilinskis to the door.

“Thank you again for all your assistance last night,” Argent said, shaking the inspector’s hand firmly. “Especially you, young man.”

He clasped Stiles’ hand and then clapped him on the shoulder. Natalie thanked them and said goodbye and then Allison. Then it was Lydia’s turn.

“I meant it when I said you would make an excellent detective, Lady Lydia,” the inspector said, kissing her hand and smiling at her.

“Thank you,” she said. She glanced at Stiles and he followed her gaze, then quickly engaged Argent in a travelling conversation that took them out to the front walk. Natalie followed quickly and Lydia didn’t blame her. She had no desire to be alone at any point in the near future.

“I suppose this is goodbye,” Stiles said.

“Because you’re going back to university and then joining your father in his business,” Lydia agreed. “Whereas I’ll be marrying someone in the not distant future, assuming my parents can keep it quiet about everything that happened last night.”

“Hopefully he’ll be nicer than Jackson,” Stiles said.

“Yes, hopefully,” Lydia agreed.

Stiles picked up her hand and brought it to his lips very briefly and then turned to leave. He paused by the door and tarried for a moment before coming back towards her.

“There’s something I ought to tell you,” he started.

“Stiles, let’s go before we freeze!” the inspector called from the front.

“In a moment!” Stiles called back.

“Whatever it is, is it a secret?” Lydia asked.

Stiles considered. “Yes, I suppose,” he said.

“Then I don’t want to know,” she said. “You should go before your father catches cold.”

Stiles nodded and then ducked to kiss her on the cheek. He lingered longer than he should have, and then he was gone.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lydia's potted fern is a holdover from the Victorian craze of Pteridomania, which was an obsession with all things fern. They used to put ferns on every sort of decoration available - vases, art books, wall hangings - and even came up with a new sort of case in which to store them, the Wardian case in 1829, because a physician in London wanted to keep his precious ferns from coming to harm in the pollution of London. It even reached the shores of the new world, and the American Fern Society was established in 1893 and still exists today.


	12. Drastic Measures

The report was troubling for the inspector. Stiles knew that. He didn’t like the fact that the only motive they’d managed to acquire was here-say from Stiles and Lydia when Gerard was dragging them off to the boathouse. The inspector wanted to know in concrete details how Kate and Peter had tried and failed to murder Gerard, how Gerard had survived, how he’d come to the conclusion that the entire family deserved ruin for it. But Argent hadn’t known anything, especially since his father’s death had already been shrouded in mystery years before, and the three people primarily involved were all dead. Stiles was tired of recounting the story for his father’s scribe. He’d needed to make a complete statement after they returned to York, but the scribe kept appearing next to him whenever he was at the office and begging him to retell the sensational story of a mass murderer. Stiles was more than a little worried about the man’s sensibilities and wondered what, exactly, Daehler would do if Stiles told him about kissing Lydia and sleeping in her bed.

“Your scribe is…deeply morbid,” Stiles informed his father as they had dinner on Boxing Day.

“Yes, I’ve spoken to him about that, but there’s nothing to be done, I’m afraid,” the inspector said. “He’s a good scribe.”

Stiles still didn’t like it, and was about to tell his father that, but the doorbell rang. They heard the housekeeper open it, and then close it, and then she returned to their dining room with a telegram. She handed it to the inspector and then took his empty plate.

Stiles watched while his father opened the telegram and read it quickly.

“What is it?” Stiles asked.

“We’re invited to the funerals tomorrow,” the inspector replied. “Out in Beacon Hills.”

“Ah,” Stiles said, trying not to dwell on the fact Lydia would be there. It wasn’t the sort of thing he was allowed to think about. Especially not if she wouldn’t let him tell her about his family being part of the peerage. “We should go, pay our respects to the victims.”

“Of course,” the inspector agreed.

They sipped their wine in silence for a second.

“And so you can see Mrs McCall,” Stiles added.

“And you can take a moment to accept the fact Lady Lydia is in mourning and her parents would never let her marry a detective inspector’s son, even one who caught a murderer,” the inspector said.

They narrowed their eyes at each other, and then let the housekeeper shoo them back to their respective bedrooms. Stiles hadn’t slept properly since that night, and wasn’t looking forward to lying in bed, starting to drift off, only to awake abruptly at some combination of the dead bodies in the root cellar, Lady Kate and Peter Hale in the wine cellar, or Gerard’s face.

He wondered how the families of the victims had taken the news. He didn’t know what the Argents had told them in order to protect the family reputation, and frankly, he wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

He started to pull his pillow over his head and caught sight of the cufflinks on his bedside table. He honestly hadn’t meant to bring them back to York, they had simply ended up in his pocket and had been staring at him for three days as a reminder of Lydia’s beautiful eyes. He resolved to give them back to her at the funerals and pressed his pillow over his head.

 

The cemetery at Beacon Hills was beautiful in the snow, and Stiles felt a pang of sympathy for the gravediggers who would have needed to work with the frozen ground in order to dig eight graves.

The snow was falling as they arrived, blocking out most of the black-clad guests. Stiles recognised Allison first and then realised the tall man whose elbow she was holding had to be Isaac. On the other side of them were Lord and Lady Argent, each grim-faced. The household staff were standing next to the farthest graves, and Stiles figured they were Mr Tate’s and Meredith’s.

“Thank you for coming,” Lady Argent said, letting the inspector kiss her hand. Stiles followed suit.

“Of course,” the inspector said.

Stiles scanned the group for Lydia and finally discovered her standing by herself. He stopped next to her and offered her his elbow. She took it without looking up at him.

“When do you return to university?” Lydia asked.

“Not for another week for my exams,” Stiles said. “And then I’ll be done in June.”

Lydia nodded and her grip tightened on his elbow. He placed his hand over hers and decided not to care if he could feel his father’s raised eyebrows.

“Have you been sleeping alright?” she asked.

“Not even slightly,” Stiles replied. “Have you?”

“No,” she said. “I shouldn’t be surprised if we both have nightmares the rest of our lives.”

Stiles nodded in agreement as the village priest started speaking about Jackson and Mr Lahey and Mr Tate and Mr Parrish and Meredith and Lady Kate and Peter Hale. He didn’t mention Gerard, and Stiles realised the eighth grave was already filled in and unmarked.

“They didn’t even mark his grave?” he whispered.

“He was already buried,” Lydia said. “An empty coffin before we were born. His gravestone is on the other side of the cemetery next to my grandmother.”

Stiles looked towards the other side of the cemetery and noticed the large, ornate headstone that could only belong to an earl. His own family cemetery had similar stones.

“Did you know Lord Argent’s mother?” he asked.

“When I was small,” Lydia said. “She died when Allison was eight.”

“And you call her your grandmother?” Stiles asked. He realised as he asked that he wanted to know everything about Lydia. More than he’d observed during their hellish night together.

“Oh,” she said, looking over at the graves and the earl. “No, I hadn’t until Christmas.”

Stiles thought it was odd to start referring to Argent’s mother as her grandmother only after Argent’s father had attempted to kill everyone, but he didn’t mention it.

“We had a nice family dinner in which we aired all the secrets our family possessed,” she continued. “It was established that it was the best course of action after Gerard.”

Stiles glanced over at the earl and countess and noticed Argent’s profile. He frowned.

“And Argent actually is your father?” he guessed.

“He is,” Lydia agreed. She sounded unimpressed with the situation. “And they compelled Allison to tell them about Scott, so that was deeply disappointing to them. They made me tell them how I actually felt about Jackson. And if I never have to deal with someone’s secrets ever again, I will be unendingly grateful.”

Stiles nodded and realised he was never going to be allowed to tell her if she went by those standards.

“What did they do to Scott?” he asked.

“Nothing serious,” Lydia said. “They’ve put him on probation and Danny’s our new head footman, but they didn’t sack him or cast him out, so there’s that at least.”

“They decided that Allison was the responsible party?” Stiles asked, watching her as she stood arm-in-arm with Isaac.

“Allison _was_ the responsible party,” Lydia replied. They fell silent for a moment, listening to the priest eulogise. “I didn’t tell them about you.”

“Oh,” Stiles said. He felt imbecilic for not having a better response, but he was suddenly stricken by the idea she hadn’t told them because he wasn’t important enough.

“It probably would’ve broken their hearts if they discovered I’d also made…friends…with someone the way Allison had,” she said.

“From what I can tell, we weren’t…friends…quite the same way Allison and Scott were,” he replied.

“No, we weren’t,” Lydia agreed, and his heard leapt when he noticed she sounded mildly disappointed by that.

They fell silent again while the priest finished his speech. The snow was falling harder now, and it was becoming close to unbearably cold. Stiles was glad to see the Argents had a carriage that would take them back to Beacon Hills, and forced himself not to be slightly miffed that he and his father would have to take their borrowed cab all the way back to York in the weather.

“Lydia!” Allison called after the funerals were over. “We’ve got to go!”

She waved at Stiles and, to his surprise, kissed Isaac on the cheek and then ran off with her parents.

“I have to go,” Lydia said. She looked up at him sadly and he wanted nothing more than to kiss her. “Will you write to me?”

“Of course,” Stiles said, deciding that was a better answer than an overly enthusiastic promise of “every day.”

“Thank you,” she said. She let go of his arm and started to walk off through the snow. He was content to watch her go and put his hands in his pockets to try and warm them after prolonged exposure in too-thin gloves. When he did, he brushed against the cufflinks.

“Wait, Lydia,” he said, catching up to her in two strides. “I accidentally kept these on that – erm – Christmas Eve.”

He held them out to her and contrasted against his black gloves and the falling snow, they looked precisely like Lydia’s eyes.

“Keep them,” she said, folding his fingers back around them. Then she turned and was gone.

He was left standing in the snow until Isaac wandered over to him. He didn’t say anything, just stood next to him and watched the Argents climb into the carriage together.

“I remembered something,” Isaac said finally as the carriage trundled off down the way and was quickly obscured by the falling snow.

“What was it?” Stiles asked.

“When we were in year ten, there was an unauthorised game of croquet in the square,” Isaac said. Stiles frowned. “It was the first time I’d talked to Jackson, I think. And it was because he accidentally hit a year nine student in the forehead with a croquet mallet.”

“It’s unbecoming to speak ill of the dead,” Stiles said, deciding to ignore the fact that he and Lydia had spent the morning of Christmas Eve plotting to drive a stake through Gerard’s heart when he was buried.

“It actually wasn’t my point,” Isaac said. “The thing is, I’m pretty sure that year nine student was you.”

Stiles nodded slowly. He hadn’t been lying when he told Lydia he didn’t remember who had hit him in the face with a croquet mallet. It could very well have been Jackson Whittemore.

“I think it might have been,” he said.

“Did you tell Lydia her lie was actually the truth?” Isaac asked.

“She requested that no one share any more secrets with her,” Stiles said. “And my father’s been running from his status since, well, since my mother died, but he kept up appearances until I finished school.”

Isaac nodded.

“Are you and Allison going to continue your engagement?” Stiles asked.

“Actually, yes,” Isaac said.

“What about Scott?” Stiles asked.

“We’ve an agreement,” Isaac said. He shrugged. “You and Lydia were catching a murderer. We were barricaded in a dressing room together talking.”

Stiles wondered briefly what sort of arrangement they might have, and then stopped. His natural curiosity often led to him learning things he, in retrospect, really didn’t want to know.

“She told you about the family airing of secrets?” Isaac asked. Stiles nodded. “Odd family. At least the violent ones are dead.”

“I wish you the best of luck,” Stiles said. He meant it honestly, and wondered at what point the curiosity would be too much to bear and he would write one of the three – probably Scott or Isaac – an inquisitive letter he would presumably regret.

Isaac shook his hand, smiled quickly, and then loped off through the snow. Stiles was only alone a second before his father reappeared and steered him back towards the public house where they’d left the driver and their cab.

The inspector didn’t say anything until they were safely enclosed in the hansom and even then he waited until the village was out of sight.

“How did things go with your friend?” the inspector asked.

“She’s asked me to write her,” Stiles said. “And told me to keep the cufflinks.”

He rested his head against the side of the cab and ignored the jostling pain that came from the uneven road until it started to shake loose the scab on his head from getting hit with the cricket bat.

The inspector was silent until they were turning onto their street in York and then he sighed.

“If you’re going to keep moping about that girl, I’m going to do something drastic,” he said.

“What sort of drastic?” Stiles asked.

The inspector smiled wickedly. “Very, very drastic.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Fact: Hansom cabs became the mode of transportation once they were introduced, most fitting just two passengers and only the later designs including glass front windows to protect from the elements. They were patented in 1834 by Joseph Hansom who was, coincidentally enough, from York.


	13. June Bride

Six Months Later

Lydia quickly stuffed her stack of letters into her vanity drawer when she heard a knock.

"Who is it?" she asked, opening her jewellery box so she could pretend she was dressing for dinner instead of compulsively re-reading Stiles' last letter. He and his father had been invited to Allison's wedding the following day and in his most recent letter, he had explained the details of his very first case as a detective inspector. She was dying to ask him more about it because it was a missing persons case, which evolved into a kidnapping, which evolved into a hostage situation, which he had diffused without requiring the family to pay ransom. She had come to the conclusion in the time since Christmas that she wanted to solve crimes as well. Whether they were thefts or missing persons or black mail cases or even murders, although those would have to come with the caveat of Stiles' presence when she tried to sleep.

Instead, she was on her third day out of official mourning over Jackson, about to watch her half-sister (if that wasn't a strange enough thought) get married. But she was content in the knowledge that Stiles would be there.

"May I come in?" her mother asked.

"Of course," Lydia said. She worried mostly that her parents had been hinting at new negotiations for her hand in marriage.

"As I'm sure you've noticed, your father and I-"

"Thank you for finally telling me he was really my father," Lydia mumbled. "It's nice to know my biological grandfather attempted to murder me."

Natalie winced and started picking through Lydia's jewellery box.

"Your father and I have been in negotiations," Natalie said.

"Because nineteen is far too young to make my own choices, even if it's old enough to be married," Lydia said.

"You don't have to marry the man, of course," Natalie said. "But we've been in negotiations with his father, and we've been to their family estate. It isn't too far and it's quite nice, if a little smaller than Beacon Hills. He and his father will be coming to the wedding, so it might be a nice opportunity to speak to him and make a choice about your future."

Lydia nodded slowly. "Do you know anything about the son?"

"He's twenty-one," Natalie said. "He went to Eton with Isaac, and recently finished university. He's quite intelligent, so you should get on well."

Lydia sighed. "And his title?"

"Viscount Melbourne," Natalie said promptly. "And I know Melbourne is small, but I believe his father is ready to hand over household management and title responsibilities to his son as soon as he marries."

Lydia sighed again and started pinning up her hair. Malia was helping Allison in her dressing room, but Lydia had opted for solitude.

"What if I don't want to run a household?" Lydia asked, pulling out her favourite hair comb. It had been a birthday present from Stiles – not that her mother knew that – and he claimed the comb part was carved out of a cricket bat. She wasn't sure she believed him, but the decorative green flower on the handle looked wonderful in her hair.

"And what would you do instead?" Natalie asked. Lydia didn't answer. "Trust me, darling, I think you'll like the viscount and his son."

Lydia didn't feel like crushing her mother's dreams at that moment and explaining that she wanted to take a position at the Stilinski detectives' office, and settled for pulling on her gloves in silence.

"I'll see you down at the dining room," Natalie said. She paused in the doorway. "Also, Detective Inspector Stilinski and his son are coming for dinner and staying the night. I believe Isaac's done something impulsive like ask the boy to be his best man."

Lydia peered at the back of her mother's retreating head in confusion. Stiles hadn't mentioned anything about Isaac asking him to be best man. In fact, he hadn't mentioned Isaac at all in any of his letters, so she wasn't sure they even spoke. It didn't sink in that he was going to be at dinner until she was walking down the stairs and saw him.

She had spent the past six months keeping their mutual fondness to herself. The only person who knew she exchanged letters with him as fast as the royal mail could carry them between Beacon Hills and Leeds was Danny, as he was responsible for the post in the household. Fortunately, Danny was a paragon of discretion and she was the queen of secrecy. But however much they had talked about running off together, it hadn't quite occurred to her yet that she was actually in love with him. As such, it hit her like a cricket bat to the stomach when she saw him standing in the entryway, taking off his hat and overcoat, and simply existing in the same space as her again. She realised she hadn't imagined his freckles, or the way his brown eyes turned almost gold in the late June sunlight streaming through the front windows. She certainly hadn't over-exaggerated the way his face lit up when he saw her.

But she squashed down the bubbling excitement at seeing him again when she remembered she also hadn't imagined her mother coming into her room minutes before and telling her she would be meeting her intended fiancé the next day.

"Detective Inspector," she said, smiling at the man and offering him her hand.

"Lady Lydia," he said, smiling back at her and kissing her hand briefly. She noticed the ghost of mischief in his smile, but he didn't say anything else. Instead, he left to give his and Stiles' bags to Scott, who vanished with them up the stairs.

"Mr Stilinski," she said, giving Stiles her hand as well.

For a second he looked offended by the formality of her greeting, and then he noticed his father and Argent talking only a few feet away.

"Lady Lydia," he said, kissing the back of her hand. When he lifted it, she saw the green cufflinks and suddenly had to keep herself from abandoning all pretence, grabbing his coat from Danny, and dragging him out the door, never to be heard from in polite society again.

"Tell me," she said, sticking instead to formality and taking his elbow. "How is it you came to be Isaac's best man?"

He flushed. "It was supposed to be a secret," he said. "And you said there was a moratorium on sharing secrets with you, so…"

"Yes, I suppose I did," she said. She didn't find her distaste of personal secrets to be incongruous with her desire to take up detective work. She simply disliked knowing secrets in her own family and close friends. Discovering strangers' secrets would be exhilarating.

"And it happened after I wrote him an extremely ill-advised letter asking about his…agreement…with your sister, and he responded with far more detail than I ever could have possibly wanted to know," Stiles said, losing his gentlemanly tone halfway through and cringing in disgust.

Lydia stifled a laugh at his expression.

"Trust me, even if you didn't have a certain distaste for your family's secrets, you wouldn't want to know," he promised, leading her into the dining room and pulling out a chair for her. She sat and waited for him to sit down next to her. They were shortly joined by Isaac and Allison who sat across from them.

"Don't you have to be somewhere else?" Lydia asked, giving Isaac a disapproving look.

"The rule is 18 hours," Isaac said, pulling out his pocket watch. "As it is currently six in the evening, I do not have to leave for another hour."

"And besides, dinner would be so boring if he left," Allison said, smiling brightly at Isaac. He smiled back with intense affection that made Lydia feel mildly ill. Against her better judgement, she glanced sideways at Stiles, only to discover him looking askance at her as well. Any gaiety she had on the eve of her sister's wedding was instantly replaced by frustration and disappointment.

Maybe because of it, dinner seemed to last ages. Isaac was quickly shepherded back to his room and locked in at seven, and then Lydia was left alone with her mother and Allison while the men drank their brandies. Her mother was thankfully distracted with Allison's wedding and didn't mention the Viscount Melbourne again the whole evening and by the time Lydia went up to bed, she was ready to forget she'd ever said anything.

Malia was again dispatched to help Allison brush her hair and dress for bed, rather than Lydia, and she didn't mind. It gave her time to comb the curls out of her hair and stare at the multiple drawers full of letters she and Stiles had exchanged. She glanced at the ornamental comb lying on her vanity and then stood up.

She opened her door and peered down the hall. It seemed deserted, although she couldn't see around the corner to Stiles' room, so there was every possibility someone was lurking there. She could only hope there wasn't as she tiptoed towards the bend. Right as she went around it, she ran directly into someone.

On instinct, she leapt backwards, but the other person was pulling her forwards instead, wrapping his arms around her, and kissing the top of her head. She smiled into Stiles' chest and hugged him tightly.

"It's actually unimaginable how much I've missed you," he mumbled, tucking a tendril of her hair behind her ear.

"We shouldn't talk in the hall," she said, pulling him by the hand back to her room. He dutifully took the window seat and smiled happily at her.

"Did you miss me at all?" he asked as she sat on the edge of her bed and leaned against the post.

"The letters helped," she said. "Especially since I haven't had a real friend besides Allison ever in my life."

"You've had fake friends?" Stiles asked, raising his eyebrow.

"Not necessarily fake, but at finishing school it was easier to make shallow allies than deep friendships," she said.

"Ah," he said. "Well I'd much rather be a deep friend, so…"

He smiled at her again and the easy familiarity made her happy. Their friendship had come about in the most horrific of circumstances and the fact they'd managed to maintain it despite geographic separation was the only good thing to happen on Christmas as far as she was concerned. Or, indeed, for the next several months up until and possibly including that day.

"I keep thinking about what your father said," she said. "When he said I'd make a good detective."

"You would," Stiles agreed. "And I'd worry about you every day."

"Worry about me enough to stop me?" she asked.

"Absolutely not," he said. "Just enough to go with you wherever the investigation took you. Although, you'd have to get over your aversion to secrets."

She nodded and stood up before she joined him on the window seat. He immediately started fidgeting with the hem of his shirt.

"I know," she said. "But no secret that's ever come out of my family has been good."

"Your father isn't really dead because the man you thought was your step-father is actually your father?" Stiles suggested. "That can't be the worst thing-"

She interrupted him with a kiss. He responded enthusiastically, holding the back of her neck with one hand, pulling her closer with the other. She decided that if this was to be her last night before meeting her next fiancé who, regardless of any sort of circumstance, she desperately hoped would not meet the same end as Jackson, she was going to spend it with the man she…

Love, the traitorous voice in her head said. It's love, that feeling.

The thought shocked her out of the kiss. Stiles didn't move either of his hands, just let his forehead rest on hers.

"I really wish you'd let me tell you my secret," he whispered, kissing her quickly.

"Why?" she asked, kissing him again. "Is it going to magically change the fact I'm supposed to meet my new fiancé tomorrow after the wedding?"

He looked so sad she regretted her tone immediately.

"No, I suppose not," he said. He let go of her and leant back against the wall. She knew he was distressed by the way he looked out the window instead of at her and the way he kept jiggling his leg. "What do you know about him?"

"Hardly anything," she said, drawing her knees up to her chest and staring at his profile. "My mother says he went to school with Isaac, but I doubt they'd even consider someone who didn't go someplace like Eton. She claims he's smart, but unfortunately, I can't exactly tell her I've found someone who is infinitely more intelligent than anyone she would set me up with."

The corner of his mouth twitched like he was almost going to smile. "He's got a title, I suppose?"

"Of course," Lydia said. "The Viscount Melbourne."

Stiles froze. Very slowly he turned back to face her with deeper confusion on his face than she'd ever seen.

"I'm sorry, Viscount Melbourne," he repeated.

"Well, his son," Lydia corrected. "Although apparently, the current viscount is prepared to hand over the title to his son as soon as he gets married."

"And how exactly have your parents learned of the viscount?" Stiles asked, his voice oddly strangled.

"My mother said they've been to the estate," Lydia said, wondering why he was being so odd. "Why?"

Instead of responding right away, he covered his face with his oversized hands and fell forwards so his covered face was buried in his knees. She heard him mumbled, "I suppose that's what he meant by drastic," before he started shaking.

"Are you alright?" she asked, putting her hand on his shoulder to try and push him upright. When she succeeded, she realised he was, of all bizarre things, laughing.

"Your parents have been negotiating with the current Viscount Melbourne for you to marry his son," Stiles said, still laughing.

"Why is that so funny?" Lydia asked, almost offended.

"Lydia," he said, leaning forwards and kissing her. "You really should have let me tell you my secret."

"Why?" she asked.

"Because," he said. "The man you know as Detective Inspector Stilinski just so happens to be the seventh viscount Melbourne."

Lydia gaped at him.

"My parents have been negotiating with your father for my marriage," Lydia said.

"Apparently," Stiles said. "He didn't tell me either, though, so…"

Lydia thought she might start singing, but decided against it in favour of kissing him again. He responded enthusiastically.

"Wait, you actually went to Eton?" Lydia asked.

"And Isaac and I were really in the same house," Stiles agreed. "But you wouldn't let me tell you secrets, and I figured it was more appropriate to listen to you than tell you."

"Wasn't that where one of your classmates hit you in the head with a croquet mallet?" Lydia asked.

"It was Jackson, apparently," Stiles said. "I didn't remember, but Isaac did."

Lydia shook her head in disbelief and kissed him. She wanted to be mad at him but couldn't find it in herself.

It was the next afternoon as Allison and Isaac had their first dance as husband and wife that Natalie appeared next to Lydia and pulled her over to Stiles and the detective inspector.

Lydia saw Natalie open her mouth like she was about to say something, but Lydia interrupted her.

"Viscount," she said, smiling brightly at the inspector. He flushed and Stiles laughed.

"I take it you found us out," the inspector said.

"I told you, viscount," Natalie said, beaming at Lydia and Stiles. "My daughter is definitely smart enough for your son."

"I do believe you're right," the inspector said, linking elbows with her. "I can only hope my son is smart enough for your daughter."

"I'm sure they'll get on splendidly," Natalie said. "Now, about the engagement ring. Our family ring went to Allison, what with the Lahey's being new money, so-"

"My wife's ring will be perfect," the inspector said, and the two strolled off to corral Argent into conversation, leaving Stiles and Lydia alone at the edge of the dance floor.

"You know, they often say there's a tradition about the best man and maid of honour," Stiles said, offering Lydia his hand.

"Do they?" Lydia asked, taking his hand.

"They do," Stiles agreed, before he pulled her close and spun her off across the dance floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Fact: So there was a class fieldtrip yesterday, right, and we went to York, whereupon my professor promptly left me at the car park by accident and I got to spend the majority of the time we were supposed to be looking at the Yorkshire Museum wandering around looking for the Yorkshire Museum, running my phone battery down, and forcing myself not to just abandon ship and find a pub. As an aside, York is a much nicer place than the city in which I live and oh my god I wish I went to the University of York.

**Author's Note:**

> You can also read my original fiction entirely for free if you happen to like YA fantasy novels. You can do that [here](http://lucittia.wordpress.com). Just click on the cover of the first book.
> 
> And you can follow me on [tumblr](http://hmslusitania.tumblr.com) if that floats your boat. I don't post a lot of Teen Wolf anymore, but come say hi!


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